Touchable Dream
by Laurie M
Summary: Sequel to 'Tabula Rasa'. Personal and professional lives continue to collide as the Grid's personnel face another threat to national security that could have devastating consequences on a global scale.
1. Handle With Care

Author's Note: I still do not own anyone or anything in the _Spooks_ world. They are the property of Kudos and the BBC. This is a follow up to _Tabula Rasa_ - and that I _do_ own! (In the highly unlikely event that anyone wishes to borrow any of my Original Characters - as if... - just drop me a line!)

Debriefing Protocols: Read, enjoy, review.

Dedication: To Lynn, for her unfailing support and beta-ing skills and without whom I would never have made it through _Tabula Rasa_, never mind its sequel.

Spooks

Touchable Dream

By

Laurie

Chapter One: Handle With Care

She was certain that she could recite every line of text in every file by heart. And all she had for it was a sense of futility and an awareness of her own limitations. 'That's it, I give up. If there's a connection here, I can't see it.' There was a dull ache behind her eyes; she tried to remember when she had last slept in a proper bed and decided that it had been in her dreams.

'You know what we need?'

Jo worked out the kinks in her shoulders, caught his fleeting smile. 'A really, really good analyst?'

'No.' Zaf leant back, raked his hands through his hair until it was standing in every direction at once. 'We need a phenomenally good analyst.' He grinned. 'Pity we don't have one.'

Jo answered his smile; the both looked at the woman whose desk lay between their stations.

'And to think that I actually missed the two of you,' Ruth said flatly. One corner of her mouth twitched.

In some ways coming back had been easy. Few things had changed: there were still the same faces; the same atmosphere of barely contained energy; the same crises in which the events varied but little and only the names of the protagonists were different.

_Plus ça change_, she thought.

The air on the Grid had a smell that she had never really noticed, had not thought about when she was away; but when she stepped through the pods again for the first time she caught it and the recognition of it stopped her like a blow.

She found herself missing Rome, at times. Salvo, still holding himself painfully erect, would be making his rounds. Anton would be telling his terrible jokes to whomever would listen; Madeleine would smile at him, pretending to laugh and Andreas' sparkling dark eyes would watch her every movement. Had he finally worked up the courage to ask her?

Ruth had to admit that her curiosity, in that respect, was ironic.

Yes, in some ways it had been easy. Her younger colleagues in particular had gone out of their way to ease her back into the life that had once been so familiar. Jo watching her with tender eagerness, waiting for any sign of weakness that would call for her comfort. Zaf kept catching her eyes and grinning. It was endearing. And maddening.

They had accepted her back with barely a word, as though nothing had happened. That was the sort of people they were. What they had been made into. There were friends – outside of the service – to whom she could never explain, and who would never quite forgive her.

And beyond the circle of intimates on the Grid was the whispering, the curious eyes that followed her when she walked through the corridors. And she knew what they would be thinking and how they would talk and speculate about her and-

'Ruth, Jo, Zafar.' Their names barked across the Grid made all three start. He stood in the mouth of the passageway, eyes blazing with the ferocious impatience he always displayed whenever something wasn't done exactly how and when he wished.

Harry Pearce.

There had been no passionate declarations, no falling into each other's arms. No accusations, no demands. An unspoken agreement that she needed time to recover from her exile. She had never left him, not really. Or maybe he had never left her. And here they were again.

Harry didn't wait to ensure that they responded to his summons. There was no question that they would not. It was a necessary arrogance. The trio gathered their papers, followed, and took their places in the briefing room.

ooOoo

Palms flat on the table, immobile, Harry listened to the routine briefing. It was impossible to guess at what he was thinking – except, perhaps, that what they termed routine was a sad reflection on both themselves and the world at large.

Ruth cleared her throat and continued. 'We've had confirmation of a meeting on Tuesday between one Maksim Sidorov and members of an Islamic group called Kytmyr.'

'Kytmyr.' Harry's eyes narrowed.

'A reference to the eighteenth sura of the Qur'an. It's the name sometimes given to the dog that guards the sleepers in the cave – Al-Kahf.'

His fingers steepled. 'What do we know about them?'

'Of Maksim Sidorov, not much. He's from Belarus, he's a known terrorist believed to have some involvement in the recent threats to the governments of the former Iron Curtain states. Kytmyr are fairly low-level: they've written a few pamphlets, made a few threats on internet sites. A couple of their members were suspected of having links to a more militant cell that may or may not have been involved in manufacturing ricin, but there was never enough evidence.'

'I do love the sound of uncertainty in the morning,' Harry murmured.

Ruth's chin lifted. 'If there was more information coming in from the field, there would be more to work with.'

Silence. When Adam spoke they all stiffened. 'Well, Zaf, they say a dog is a man's best friend – how'd you like to make some new ones?'

'How did I know I'd be volunteered?' the younger man remarked.

Adam smiled unrepentantly. 'Telepathy.'

Ruth was sorting through her papers.

'Rosalind. You are, I believe on amicable terms with our friendly local FSB liason officer.' Harry's eyes moved slowly from the screen to Ros. She inclined her head a fraction of an inch.

'Reasonably.'

'See what he knows about Sidorov. Ask him to drop in for a chat.'

It was not the usual procedure. Zaf frowned. 'Get him here?'

'Homeground advantage. Give him a few things he won't be expecting.' He turned back to Ros. 'Smile at him.'

A flicker that could have been amusement passed across her features.

'Right. If that keeps everyone satisfied, I suggest that we return to the work at hand.' Harry stood and walked out of the room.

ooOoo

The red glow on the periphery of her vision had been rendered almost unnoticeable through familiarity. The glass walls gave the illusion that the office and its occupant were approachable by and visible to all. Approachable, perhaps. But it was far more difficult to see in than out. The supposed subject of their all-seeing gaze was, in truth, the watcher.

Despite the promises to herself, Ruth found that she was still one of the last to leave on any given night. There were others. She looked up in time to avoid colliding with him. 'Oh, I-' For a moment, words abandoned her. 'I-I was just going to-' She juggled the files awkwardly.

'Ah. Of course. Could you put them on my desk?' Coat, gloves in hand. He was obviously leaving for the night – earlier than usual. 'Save some of the fun for tomorrow.'

'Yes. Yes, of course, Harry.'

His eyes were on her face. 'You-' A breath. 'You have settled in again, haven't you? Everything's all right?'

'With me? Fine, yes – yes, it's fine.'

Everything seemed to blur a little

'It is good to have you back, Ruth.'

A little over a month ago and her new life had gone as easily as the old one. Like a mirror broken and re-broken and the pieces put back together. But the distortions increased. Both arms wrapped the files, Ruth held them to her chest. Part comfort, part barrier. 'Have you seen Mia lately?'

He looked slightly startled by the question, watched her curiously. 'Mia? Not lately, no.'

Ruth nodded, silent for a moment. 'I liked her.'

'Well...' A frown had appeared, the same expression he wore when trying to unravel a hopeless enigma. 'That's ... good.'

Ruth's smile was quick and nervous. 'You know she offered me a job?'

He looked at her.

'She- Well, sh-she probably didn't mean it.' In Budapest in a hotel room at three in the morning, Mia's cheek propped heavily against her hand and her eyes barely open.

'She probably did,' Harry said quietly. 'That would be like her.'

'Oh.'

The frown had gone and his gaze was steady.

Two voices echoing each other called goodnights across the Grid. They both turned in response. Jo and Zaf walked across to the pods, chatting and keeping a certain amount of distance between them.

'They make an attractive couple,' Harry observed.

Ruth started slightly then smiled. 'Do you think that they really believe that no-one else knows?' And was aware, once more, of the irony. Or perhaps it was just hypocrisy.

'Does it matter? They're happy.' There was a certain note in his voice, one that twisted something inside her. She caught her breath back, would have spoken-

'Goodnight, Ruth.'

He was already past her.

'Goodnight.'

It wasn't numbness, it wasn't pain – she would almost have welcomed that. It was a horrible hollowness and she couldn't escape it. Ruth leaned back until her head rested against the wall. Coming back was supposed to be something happy, something good. She pushed herself away from the wall, continued to his office, rolled the door back with more gentleness than she used when he was in it.

She didn't really need the desk-lamp but she flicked it on, placing the files in the middle. A moment to survey the space that he kept ridiculously tidy. There was something propped against the computer and she picked it up automatically.

A thin piece of card. She turned it over, barely registering that this was an unforgivable invasion of privacy. There was no message on the back, no address or stamp. Something he had bought rather than been sent – or perhaps had been given. Ruth stared at the picture again, losing herself in the floating purple and reds.

She replaced it carefully and turned off the lamp.

ooOoo

The heavy metallic thud as the door fell closed behind him still had the power to send a wave of nausea through him. A sense of claustrophobia that screamed at him to run. It was a natural reaction, he told himself. Perhaps it was the smell. Harry had seen the inside of enough prisons to know that they all had the same smell. Desperation and despair. The warden, heavy footsteps ringing on the concrete floor, did not help matters: the thick Ulster accent and it was the H Blocks all over again.

Muffled clangs reverberated along the walls, counterpointed by the occasional shout suddenly cut off.

'This is an unusual visit for us,' his companion informed him.

It wasn't exactly usual for himself, Harry thought; his non-committal grunt of a response, however, seemed to satisfy the warden. He was led to a small room that smelt strongly of antiseptic and an underlying coat of dirt. The walls were still rough whitewashed brick. A scratched metal table with a chair either side – Harry seated himself at the one facing the door.

The warden stood to one side, jaw set and eyes glassy.

Footsteps along the corridor, from the direction opposite to the one Harry had travelled. The door opened and three men entered. Two remained in the doorway, the third crossed the room slowly and took the other chair.

'I'll be outside if he gives you any trouble.'

'There won't be any, I'm sure,' Harry replied.

The door fell to heavily. Harry observed the man opposite him. He was thinner, the hollows at his temples more pronounced, his skin more sallow. Under his eyes it was puffy, purple so dark it looked bruised. His hair had been cut short against his head, more silver than previously and in so short a space of time. He leaned back in the chair, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. 'Well, Harry, come to practise your interrogation skills?'

Harry let out a heavy breath. 'Hello, Oliver.'

_TBC_


	2. The Mercy Seat

Chapter Two: The Mercy Seat

'I wouldn't have thought that gloating was quite your style, Harry.'

'It isn't. That isn't why I came.'

Mace leaned back, both hands on the table, a display of nonchalance. 'I would love to offer you refreshment, Harry, but as you can see our surroundings are somewhat less conducive to luxury than my preferred meeting place.'

'When the investigation into the JIC is over I'm sure you'll have enough old friends around to form another club. You were always good at that.'

'Yes.' Mace regarded him. 'You never were. Oh, you'd go through the motions – or some of them – but your heart was never quite in it. I always wondered if that was genuine distaste or just stubbornness.'

'To paraphrase the philosopher Marx, I wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have someone like you for a member.'

Mace laughed, coughed, wiped his mouth. 'I have missed our chats, Harry. Always so entertaining.'

They both kept their voices low, speaking with the ingrained carefulness of many years' experience.

'Well, Harry, I am assuming that this isn't a social call. Why are you here?'

Harry lost none of his ease, but his eyes were cold.

'Some very interesting facts have been uncovered while your former colleagues have been questioned, Oliver.'

'The old institution isn't too healthy these days, from what I hear. I hope that you're satisfied with your handiwork, Harry.'

'Ridding the Service of some of the things that have been destroying it from the inside out? Oh yes, Oliver, I am very satisfied about that.'

'And destroying the Service that you profess to love?'

'You and your cohorts are responsible for that. Although destroyed is a little strong - slightly sullied, perhaps, but soon remedied. Which brings us rather neatly to the purpose of this visit.'

Mace let out a long breath. 'Which is?'

'Amidst the small forest of paperwork that was removed from your home were a few things that led to a bank account which in turn led to an apartment near Canada Water. Sloppy, Oliver.'

Mace turned over a hand, palm upwards. 'My deficiencies in covering tracks notwithstanding – the point?'

'Yakov Mikhailevich Uspensky.'

'Ah.'

'Twenty-two. It's an improvement, if nothing else.'

Mace tilted his head back. 'Poor little Yasha. Don't tell me that you've turned him out onto the street already.'

'Oh, we didn't have to,' Harry responded lightly. 'Someone did that for us.'

'Really? I would have thought that he'd install his girlfriend rather than move out.'

'Girlfriend?'

Mace's lip curled. It was almost a pitying glance. 'Yes, Harry, his girlfriend. He did have one, you know.'

'Like you have a wife. How is Vanessa?'

Pity to hatred in a heartbeat. 'Stay away from her.'

'I have no interest in your soon-to-be ex-wife, Oliver, I assure you. What is her name?'

'Who?'

'Uspensky's girlfriend.'

A shrug. 'I don't know. I never met her.'

'But you saw her.'

His lip curled again. 'My, my, you are good at this. I'd forgotten. It's a pity we never worked together more.'

Harry's face remained impassive. 'That is a lack I shall regret until my final breath.'

Another laugh, hacking in his chest.

'What is she, the girlfriend?'

Mace linked both hands together. 'Russian girl. Very thin. Looked like a model – or a junkie.'

'I thought the two were synonymous these days. Her name.'

'I don't know.'

'Guess.'

'Yuliya.'

Harry's turn to smile. 'Care to guess at a last name?'

'Oh, let's say Danilova. So pretty, those Slavic names, don't you think?'

'Mmm.'

'If I have satisfied your curiosity, Harry, would you mind satisfying mine?'

Harry tilted his head.

'Why all the interest?'

'Yakov Uspensky was found dead in that expensive apartment yesterday morning.'

There was no response. Harry could almost see Mace's mind whirring. Not quite fast enough.

'Dead.'

'Extremely.' Harry reached into a pocket and withdrew a photograph, slid it across the table to Mace. The face may once have been attractive but it was so contorted it was impossible to tell. 'He was poisoned with potassium cyanide.' A pause. 'It's relatively quick but extremely painful. Everything just stops – brain, heart, lungs. But there is just enough time to realise what is happening.'

Mace's lips were compressed, the tendons in his neck rigid. When his voice came it was hoarse. 'And- And you think, what? That I killed him?'

'Did you?'

He spread his hands. 'Of course. I just popped out and-'

'I'm not in the mood for semantic games, Oliver.' Harry bit off the words. 'Did you have him killed? Did you have any involvement in this boy's death?'

'No.' His eyes lowered to the photo then raised to Harry's. 'No, I didn't. I didn't know he was dead until you told me. Why would I have him killed?'

'There are myriad reasons.' Another conversation, another photograph of a corpse and the same face opposite him. 'To cover those tracks of yours; to stop the boy talking about anything you may have told him.'

Even through the thick walls and the heavy door, the sound of the wretched life in the building beyond still filtered through. Faint and distorted, but Mace still flinched almost imperceptibly with every door that slammed.

'I told him nothing.'

'Are you sure?' Mace folded his arms. Harry leaned back. 'No unguarded pillow-talk?'

'I had better things to do, I assure you.' His tongue flicked across his lips. 'So, is the lovely Miss Evershed the repository for all your late-night confessions, Harry? Or have you simply turned to an older flame?'

No movement. 'Was Uspensky blackmailing you?'

'No. No, he was not blackmailing me; there were no indiscretions I wanted silenced. He was no angel but he- He was a sweet boy. And I had no involvement in his death.' Every word was weighted. Mace glanced down at the photograph; his fingers touched the anguished face with unexpected tenderness. 'Yasha.'

Harry breathed out heavily, stood, crossed the room and struck his fist twice against the door.

'Your daughter... She writes to you, doesn't she? You see her.' Mace had turned in his chair, body twisting awkwardly.

'Yes. She does.'

The door swung open, the warden's eyes darting between them.

'You're lucky.'

ooOoo§

It was only when Harry was back in his car that he was able to take a clear breath. The sensation of suffocation slowly easing. He loosened his tie. The idea of the incarceration of another human being was not one that he had a problem with; the reality of it was another matter. He dealt in human misery but had never developed an immunity to it.

Harry keyed a number into his phone; it rang twice before being picked up. 'It's me. I've just seen Mace.'

'And?'

'He said he had no knowledge of the boy's death.'

'Well, he would say that, wouldn't he?'

'I believed him.'

Juliet sighed. 'All right. I suppose that will have to be good enough.'

'Thank you so much. We can probably safely leave the matter to the police now.' He stared, unseeing, through the windscreen. Raindrops chased each other across the surface. 'Uspensky had a girlfriend – Yuliya Danilova.'

'God, he did put himself about a bit, didn't he?'

'Apparently. And he wouldn't be the only one.' His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. 'Will you give the police the name?'

She sighed again. He knew she was stretching back, one hand running through her hair. 'Yes, I might as well. Buy a little good will. Every little helps, as they say.'

Harry sneered. 'Dear God, Juliet, spare me the platitudes culled from popular entertainment.'

Juliet laughed. 'I would hardly call that popular entertainment. No mercenary phone-lines. And certainly not enough scantily-clad females of pneumatic proportions.'

'That might improve things,' he commented.

'Now you sound like a middle-aged man.'

'I _am_ a middle-aged man.'

'Not a sleazy one. As far as I know. If you are, kindly keep it to yourself-' She broke off suddenly.

'Juliet?'

A muffled sound that he suddenly recognised as a yawn. And lessened his grip on the phone.

'Sorry. It's been a very long day.'

It was starting to rain again, drops splashing sharply against the roof of the car. 'They all are. Have you eaten yet?'

'Eaten? No, why?'

'I could take you to dinner.'

Silence. Then, 'Good God, you must be desperate.'

'Don't flatter yourself,' he retorted. 'It's an offer of friendship, not a desire for your company.'

'Ha.' Juliet hesitated. 'I- I still have another meeting – the Defence Secretary, no less.'

'Oh dear. You better get out the visual aids and be sure to use small words.'

'Another time?'

That it came as a question surprised him slightly. 'Yes – another time.'

'Night, Harry.'

'Goodnight, Juliet.'

After he rang off he sat for a few moments; the sky was inky black, and the great hulking shape of the prison sat squat on the skyline. Weariness had crept into his bones and seemed to be seeping out of his pores. The encounter had left him feeling unaccountably depressed. Harry reminded himself that this was the life he had chosen and found little comfort in that. Given the choice again, he wondered, would he make a different one? And given a choice now, would he take it?

Another moment and he started the car, reversing slowly away from the heavy gates.

_TBC_


	3. Favours

Chapter Three: Favours

The thing that struck anyone meeting Lev Nikiforovich Kazakov for the first time was an awareness that his main concern was that it should be realised how handsome he was. It was infuriating. What was even more infuriating was the fact that he _was_ very handsome.

It was also not entirely true. As Ros was fully aware, Lev Nikiforovich's main concern was his reputation as an agent. And he was a very good agent.

Even so, the summons to Thames House was out of the ordinary and he could not quite hide his surprise. His smile, still affable, was a little forced and his eyes were wary.

Ros had opted for one of the rooms away from the Grid. Comfortable, well furnished and wired for sound. Malcolm would be listening in, tea close to hand, the _Times_ crossword on his knee. She sat on a sofa, one arm draped along the top, angled her body towards him, smiled. 'Why don't you have a seat, Lyova?'

He seated himself at the opposite end. His lips were a little too full for her liking.

'Coffee?' She gestured to the tray on the table. 'I would have brought vodka but it is a little early – and it turns out that the budget doesn't quite stretch to a decent bottle.'

He laughed obligingly, waved a hand. 'You English are poor these days, yes? Too many taxes. Next time, Roza, I will bring you vodka. The real stuff, from St Petersburg, not this diluted crap they sell here. This will be the real thing – so pure it's illegal. We bring it in in the diplomatic bag.'

She smiled again. 'That would be lovely, Lyova; I'll add some to the Christmas punch – really get the party going.'

Another laugh. It almost sounded genuine. 'So, Roza, what is it that Harry Pearce wants you to ask me?'

Ros rested her cheek against her hand, propping herself against the cushions. 'Harry? Why can't this just be what I want to ask you?'

'You are an independent woman. I like that, it's very attractive. But everyone knows that you are Harry's.' He held up his hands. 'I do not wish to sound disrespectful. You trust each other, that's good. That is valuable. But I do not get invited to Thames House unless _he_ knows about it. So,' a shrug, 'what can I do for you, my Roza?'

She watched him for a moment then said conversationally, 'Someone's come across our radar and we could do with a little more information on him. Maksim Sidorov.'

A sound that could have been a word. 'Sidorov. A terrorist. Belarussian,' he added, as though that explained everything.

'Funnily enough, Lyova, we already knew that. We'd like to know more.'

He was still smiling but his eyes were calculating, trying to read her cool features. 'I see. And what do I get in return?'

'My gratitude.'

A flash that she judged was amusement. 'Just how grateful would you be, Roza?'

She was coiled against the sofa, lips curling, expression glacial. 'Not that grateful, Lyova.'

ooOoo

_Ruth. A moment._

The discreet ping from her computer had alerted her to the message's arrival. It was not the brevity that surprised her, but the source. Harry's preferred method of summons was to stand in the doorway and shout for the person he wanted. A one man stand against the tyranny of technology. Her mind ran over the possible things he could want with her or from her or to say to her – until she concluded that the best way to find out was to go to him.

Harry was waiting for her on the sofa. A gesture from his head to close the door, another from his hand brought her to sit at the opposite end. It was an appalling piece of furniture, she thought, all angles and hard edges.

Harry studied her face. 'Ruth, do you still have a friend in the Greater London Murder Squad?'

No words for a moment. 'I- Sort of.'

His eyebrows raised. 'Sort of? They sort of work there?'

She twisted a ring round her finger and her shoulders hunched. It was that remote look that he had seen sometimes and seemed to happen more frequently. 'No – I mean that they're sort of a friend. Now.'

'Oh.' He straightened, moving back slightly as though to distance himself from his words. Before, when she had been away and moments such as these were only memories, he had thought that if he could find her again the solving of that problem would somehow solve all the others. A foolish hope. Naïve, he thought with bitter irony. Sometimes now she was further away than she had been then. 'Ruth-'

Her eyes found his, steady and cool. 'What do you want, Harry? I mean- what is it you need?'

'There is an on-going murder investigation. A young man, Yakov Uspensky. There may be a girl involved - Yuliya Danilova. I would like to know how the investigation is proceeding and if the girl is found. And ... if she was involved.'

Ruth nodded. Frowned. 'Right. And- What, you think that this has some connection to Sidorov?'

He was surprised. 'No. No, it isn't... Call it my curiosity, Ruth, that's all.' Hesitation. She would know soon enough. 'The boy, Uspensky... The flat he lived in was rented for him. He was being kept by Oliver Mace.'

For a moment there was no reaction, then the lines in her face tightened, deepened. 'I see.'

'The money he used had been siphoned from the JIC funds.'

A nod. The boy's name had been Benedek, she remembered. The police photos in the file had shown the wrecked scrap his body had been turned into, and one showed the pretty young man he had been before that. Ruth had looked through the file while Mia took a shower. She knew that Mia had wept for the boy, used the sound of the water to muffle it. When she had come back into the room, her eyes had been red.

'Was Mace- Did he kill him, Harry?'

'No.'

She watched him. 'Are you sure?'

He sighed. 'Sure? No. Fairly certain – yes. I just want to keep an eye on things for my own peace of mind. Ruth. If you don't feel able-'

She roused herself. Brushed invisible hairs away from her face. 'It's all right, Harry. It-it's fine, really.'

The hand resting on his knee flexed, then relaxed. He nodded slightly. 'There's no need for you to spend much time on it. But remember-'

'Discretion in all things.' She smiled a little. 'Yes, I do know.'

'Yes, of course.'

His fingers tapped lightly against the back of the sofa. The interview was over but neither moved. Neither looked away. Until Harry finally said, 'Thank you, Ruth.'

She took a breath, let it out and wondered exactly what he was thanking her for. 'Right.'

Harry watched her across the Grid as she stopped to talk to Adam, call something to someone out of his line of sight, continue to the forgery suite. He spoke only half-aloud.

'She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I will talk no more of books or the long war

But will walk by the dry thorn until I have found

Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there

Manage the talk until her name come round.'

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and went back to his desk. He was joining the ranks of the sentimentalists and in that company, he thought, there was neither comfort nor dignity.

ooOoo

'Well?'

Ros' elbows rested on the table, tapering fingers forming an elegant pyramid. 'Lev Nikifovorich sends his best wishes.'

Harry grimaced. 'I can sleep easy, then.' There was a quirk at the corners of her mouth that Harry had come to recognise as humorous. 'And once you had finished exchanging pleasantries, what did he have to say about Maksim Sidorov?'

It would be simpler to listen to the recording. Harry preferred it in person.

'He's Belarussian and a peasant.' She shrugged. 'That's the short version.'

'And the long version?'

'Sidorov had a brief and undistinguished military career. He resigned his commission and dropped out of sight. When he re-emerged it was as the head of a small band of disaffected Belarus nationals – some of whom had served with him in the army.'

'And to which deep and meaningful ideology does he subscribe?'

Ros' head tilted an inch to the left. 'You could call it a reactionary one, I suppose. He's been responsible, apparently, for threats against members of the current Belarus government and an attack on the foreign minister last year.'

A ripple, almost an inaudible murmur from her audience. The attack had killed the minister's wife, left their son partially disabled.

'I thought you said he was a reactionary?'

Harry was rewarded with one of Ros' impenetrable smiles. 'He is. He doesn't think that the government is stringent enough and that it is betraying their glorious Soviet heritage.'

Adam snorted. 'Not stringent enough? It's a dictatorship in everything but name. Half the Belarus FSB is made up of old Russian KGB and it's got one of the worst track records on human rights abuses in the world. What the hell else does he want?'

'Stock-options in a gulag, probably,' Zaf stated.

'Belarus has recently made overtures to China,' Ruth put in quietly. 'Chinese military have been trained at the academy in Minsk, China provided the Belarus Defence Ministry with almost half-a-million pounds worth of medical equipment. Russia has ensured that Belarus is dependent on them for their energy supplies but if they could make a deal with the Chinese it would be leverage for the Belarus administration to gain more parity with their Russian counterparts. They don't have gas or oil of their own, but they do have pipelines and the pipelines in themselves are a valuable commodity. Linking them to supplies in China could be valuable to more European countries than just Belarus.'

'Belarus is Russia's last ally in Europe but the respective leaders aren't exactly the best of friends,' Ros continued smoothly. 'And according to Lyova, Sidorov thinks that a change in leadership and closer ties to Russia is what's in order.'

'I would have thought that Russia would find that attitude somewhat endearing.' There was no humour in Harry's remark.

Ros shrugged. 'Possibly. But the official line is that Russia doesn't want to be associated with terrorism of any kind - especially in the current climate.'

'Which brings us to our next question: what does Sidorov want from the Islamicists? Zafar.'

The young man leaned forward. Still in his guise of Kytmyr's latest recruit, unshaven, circles under his eyes, he looked every inch the young thug, Harry thought. 'There's another meeting with Sidorov today.'

Jo shifted slightly in her chair, flicking the cap off her pen, retrieving it, flicking it off, retrieving it...

'Kytmyr really are pretty low-level; it's almost like seeing the little kids trying to play in the big kids' sandbox. God knows how they ended up in contact with someone like Sidorov.'

'Do they pose a genuine threat?'

Zaf scratched his ear, widened his eyes in an effort to look more awake than he felt. 'On their own, probably not. I think they're out of their depth but desperate not to show it. And that _does_ make them dangerous. I get the feeling that Sidorov is in the market to buy something, but I don't know what. Yet.'

Harry nodded. 'Very well. You'd better get yourself in position for your next meeting. Ruth - anymore information that you can get on Sidorov would be useful. Jo can help you.'

The blonde head turned sharply; any objection was met by Harry's coldly appraising stare. She subsided. 'Yes, Harry.'

'Good.'

_TBC_


	4. Undercover

Chapter Four: Undercover

Jo pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. She had been restless all day. Her work had been as good as ever – better, in fact, than Ruth remembered – but her mind wasn't entirely on it.

She still had the habit of thinking of Jo as the new girl, the baby in their midst. But she was a seasoned field officer, a good analyst – some of the changes had happened right from the start, but when you see someone everyday you stop noticing. The marked differences had occurred in that in between time. The one between _then_ and _now_. 'While you were away,' had become the euphemism, Ruth thought gloomily. As though she had simply taken a holiday. Sentences that trailed off before being resumed with smiles that were a little too bright.

'Would you like some tea, Ruth?'

She smiled slightly. A good agent, but subtlety in certain quarters was not Jo's forte.

'No thanks.'

'Oh.' She tapped at her keyboard, chewed the end of her pen. 'I-I think I'll get some.' Already out of her chair, she turned. 'Are you sure?'

Ruth nodded.

Jo crossed the Grid, eyes ahead, one glance only towards the glass walls and Harry's head bent over his desk. It was, she reasoned to herself, harmless. Natural that when they were all working on the same thing, they should all know what was going on elsewhere. She made her detour, standing in the doorway of the surveillance station.

ooOoo

The basement had flooded the week before, knocking out the heating. It was colder indoors than out, damp cold that crept into bones until they rattled with it. Zaf's face felt almost numb. He pulled his jacket closer around himself, shoulders hunching. The paper, stained with mildew, was peeling from the walls. Brilliant green behind it. Something about green paint. Dangerous. He couldn't quite remember.

The leader of the small group called Kytmyr looked more like a scholar than a soldier. Mahmoud Bahri. Thin, nervous, a straggling beard that barely covered the acne scars on his cheeks. Rimless glasses. His eyes usually darted everywhere but now, like those of everyone else, were fixed on Maksim Sidorov.

The taweez locket at his throat felt heavy, unfamiliar. It contained a scrap of a sura and a tiny transmitter. Zaf had once known a man who built replicas of world monuments out of matchsticks, to scale and in perfect detail. He and Malcolm would get on. You were never quite alone in the field. That was the myth, anyway. Adam and Ros were in the obbo van only a few yards away. And if it all went to hell, they may as well be on another planet. Yes, it was a myth – but at least it was a comforting one.

Sidorov was a surprisingly small man. Compact. Lean cheeks, deeply lined. His English was heavily accented and precise. And when he looked at Zaf it was as though he saw right through him.

'Who is he?'

Mahmoud shifted, threadbare black scarf tight around his neck. 'He's new.'

'Obviously. You make friends very quickly. You must either be good judges of character or very trusting. Which is it?'

Zaf could feel them withdrawing from him. Not a big movement, not even the shuffle of feet – just an unspoken disowning that would remove them from any responsibility for what would happen next.

'Arkasha.'

'He is our brother...' Mahmoud's voice, already uncertain, trailed off.

'I don't like his face,' Sidorov stated.

The first blow sent him reeling, pain searing through his jaw into his skull, snapping his head back. The second winded him, brought him to his knees.

ooOoo

Ros raised her head sharply. 'Do we get him out of there?'

She had put on a little weight lately. On most people it would barely be noticeable but on her it made a difference. She had always been, to Adam's eyes, painfully thin. Her cheeks were a little rounder now, it softened her features.

Adam shook his head. 'Wait.'

ooOoo

Blood filled his mouth. Thick, metallic. He spat it out. A blow to the middle of his back. He coughed. Choked. You don't beg. You never let them hear you beg.

It wasn't that bad. If they really wanted him hurt it would be worse than this. His head was pulled back, face a grimace with teeth stained red. Arkasha. It seemed a ridiculous name for someone so big. The skin on his hands was surprisingly soft.

ooOoo

'Malcolm, let me talk to Adam.' Jo's voice behind him, hard and taut, made him start. She reached over his shoulder, pulling at wires. He twisted, blocking her ineffectually.

'Joanna. Step out.'

Harry was behind her, hands loosely flexed at his sides. Jo took a half-step towards him and stopped.

'They'll kill him. Adam's just- You've got to tell Adam-'

'Step out.'

His voice was controlled. His coldness still shocked her at times. She hated him then.

'I won't tell you again.'

Her teeth ached, clamped together. She angled her body sharply away from his as she passed. And further down the corridor she stopped, back pressed against the wall. Jo leaned her head back, breathing deeply and tried to stop herself from shaking.

ooOoo

Sidorov laughed, watching the young man sprawled on the floor. 'He takes it well. I think that's enough, Arkasha. Arkadiy!' The big man stopped. 'We don't want to kill him.' Sidorov sat. It was a spindly chair, barely up to the task of holding even his weight. It creaked as he shifted. The small group of younger men huddled together, faces strained. They were little more than children, he thought dismissively. But even children had their uses. He turned his attention back to the man still curled at his feet. This one was different. Tougher.

'What's your name?'

Zaf pushed himself up cautiously, sullen black eyes raised to meet the Belarussian's. 'Ifti.' He swallowed, mouth thick. 'Ifti Khan.'

'Well, Ifti Khan, you might be more useful than you look.'

ooOoo

Harry had grasped the back of Malcolm's chair. He released it, shoulders relaxing, reached past Malcolm and pressed a button. 'Adam?'

'We're still in position. Sounds like it's over.'

'Yes. Stay there.'

Harry walked out, ignoring the young woman hovering at the other end of the corridor.

ooOoo

'So, what do you have for me?'

Mahmoud Bahri licked his lips, eyeing the seated man. He was flanked by the one he called Arkasha and another. 'W-we can get you ricin.'

'Ricin.' Sidorov scratched his cheek, shrugged. 'Ricin is good, yes, but I could make that myself. I need something more. Sarin.' At Mahmoud's gasp he laughed again. 'What? That is ... what is the English phrase? Too rich for your blood?'

'I-' Mahmoud moistened his lips. He tried not to be afraid; all of the time he tried not to. But there were so many things that still frightened him. Some of the words that came out of his own mouth; men like this. But showing weakness frightened him just as much.

Vanity and fear form a terrifying combination.

His shoulders straightened. 'I know people. We can, perhaps, get you what you want. _Insha'Allah_.'

Sidorov smiled. 'My friend, I don't think God has anything to do with this.'

ooOoo

The door to his office rolled back smoothly. Harry glanced up, back to the papers across his desk. Jo closed the door.

'They could have killed him.'

A sharp click as he replaced the cap on his pen. 'Sit down, Joanna.'

She stood by the door for a moment. He looked at her. She crossed the room, sat primly on the edge of the chair.

'The last I heard, Zaf was alive and – perhaps not quite well, but he was still in one piece.'

'That isn't the point.'

'You're right. It isn't. Personal feelings have no place here, Jo.'

She stiffened, her eyes automatically flicked sideways. It seemed a statement of monumental hypocrisy. Harry had noticed her involuntary glance through the window, the one desk clearly in their sight-lines. His lips had tightened. Jo tossed the hair back from her shoulders. 'It isn't always that easy, Harry.'

'No.' Quietly. 'You could have put people in danger.'

'I didn't-'

Harry cut across her. 'There is no room for argument here, Joanna. Jo. If you cannot separate your personal feelings from your work, then perhaps you should give some thought about what it is you want to do. Continue here, or...'

She was very still for a moment, her chin raised. 'Are you trying to get rid of me, Harry?'

He sighed and felt too weary for these conversations. 'No. I'm asking you to think about the consequences of your actions. I am asking you to consider what can happen if you don't trust the people in the field to do their jobs.'

'I do trust them!'

'Really?' His head tilted. 'You trusted Adam and Ros, today, where Zafar was concerned?'

'I-' Her breath caught and released slowly. 'I see. I-I'm good at this job, Harry, I am. It's what I want to do. I made a mistake, but I'm not a fool.'

'I have never thought you were. Except for when you behave like one. If it happens again - what is that appalling American phrase ... three strikes and you're out? There are no three strikes, Joanna, not here, not with me.'

'I know, Harry. And it won't happen again.'

He nodded, picked up the pen. She made sure that the door barely made a sound when she closed it on her way out.

ooOoo

Adam let out a low whistle when Zaf clambered into the back of the van. Rendezvous point, an hour later and three miles from the meeting. 'You should get that seen to, mate.'

'I'm fine,' he grunted.

Ros passed him a bottle of water. Her eyes stayed on his face. He couldn't tell if it was concern, sympathy or simple appraisal. Zaf sat back tenderly. It would be worse tomorrow, he thought. Once the stiffness set in.

'So. Sarin.'

'Yeah.' Zaf drank the water gratefully.

'Can Bahri and his gang supply it?' Adam continued.

'I don't think so. It's a bit out of their league, but-' He shrugged, winced and tried to hide it. 'I get the feeling that Sidorov may have another supplier already. It amuses him to keep Bahri and the rest of them dangling on a string. Bloody sadist.'

'Obviously.' Adam grimaced.

'The big question,' Ros stated, 'is what he wants it for.'

'A fiendish plan,' Zaf answered.

'A fiendish plan?'

'Yeah, to do something fiendish.' A ghost of a smile. Another wince.

Adam glanced at Ros. 'We can, er, drop you at home, mate.'

Zaf straightened up, teeth gritted. 'Nah. I told you, I'm fine - just back to the Grid.'

ooOoo

Zaf emerged from Harry's office, still moving slowly. Everything had settled into a dull ache. A glance in the mirror had come as a shock, even to him. His lower-lip was split, one eye almost swollen shut. Bruises already darkening along his jaw-line.

He turned the corner into the back corridor and found Jo waiting without looking like she was waiting. Zaf slowed. She looked up from her file and her eyes looked huge.

'You okay?'

'Yeah.' His voice sounded rough. 'I heard what happened. What the hell did you think you were doing?'

The small smile vanished, her face becoming taut. 'I was worried. I got scared that something might happen to you.'

'I don't need you or anyone else fighting my battles for me, Jo.' Roughly, more than he had meant. He shouldn't be this angry and he couldn't stop it.

Jo's arms folded, crushing the file to her chest. 'Screw you,' she said calmly.

ooOoo

'I hope you weren't too hard on her.'

Harry frowned. 'Who?'

'Jo.' There was a note of impatience in Ruth's voice.

'Ah. No more than necessary.'

She watched him and said slowly, 'It isn't always possible to keep the professional and the private separate, Harry.'

He laughed shortly. 'I'm sure that you won't be astounded to learn that Joanna pointed that out to me.'

Colour warmed her face; her eyes dropped from his. 'Yes.' A shared smile. 'Is-is there anything else, Harry?'

'No, that's all, thank you, Ruth. Goodnight.'

'Goodnight.'

ooOoo

'I really am sorry.'

Jo let out an indistinct noise. She knelt next to him on the bed, hair tied back loosely; she wore an expression of intense concentration.

'It was just-'

'Zaf. Enough, okay? I've already had the lecture from Harry; I don't need it again. I got it the first time. Okay?'

'Oka- Ouch!' He pulled away from her hand. 'Your bedside manner could do with some work.'

A smile was starting to form. Lamplight made her hair look like pure gold. 'You should have gone to the hospital, then.' Jo sat back on her heels, eyed him critically. 'Actually, you should probably do that anyway.'

'I'm all right. Honestly. Sweet of you to care.'

'Shut up.' Skin was broken over his ribs, bruises coming up. She hated what they had done to him. Her hands, at least, had stopped shaking. The air held the scent of antiseptic, like when her mum would tend a scraped knee when she was a kid. This was far more than a scraped knee. 'That's about the best I can do.'

'Thanks.' He twisted a stray strand of her hair around his fingers.

Her face had softened. 'Can I do anything else?'

'Yeah. Come here.'

She was resistant. 'I thought you were in pain.'

'I'm feeling better.'

_TBC_


	5. Turnabout

Chapter Five: Turnabout

Ruth laid the photographs neatly across his desk. Harry scanned them, looked up.

'There was what you set Jo and I to work on and then there was the – the other ... _thing_ that you asked me about...'

He watched her expectantly. Experience had taught him that Ruth would have a point; she would get to it one way or another.

'This is more or less where they met in the middle.'

She had been holding it behind her back, produced it with the flourish of a stage magician.

Harry looked at the photograph, glanced at its fellows then returned to it. The clearly defined contours and brilliant colours left little doubt. He leant back, shoulders sagging.

'Oh, for God's sake.'

ooOoo

The bruises on Zaf's face made him look like a boxer on the skids. He wore them like badges of honour, garnering exclamations of sympathy and concern from numerous corners.

Whenever he had caught Jo's eye he had winked at her.

They sat opposite each other in the briefing room and Zaf watched her. They all watched her. She was the one doing the talking.

'We've been keeping surveillance on Sidorov and going through the database to see if he crosschecks anywhere else. Or with anyone else. One of the links turned this up.' Jo tapped her keyboard; another photograph flickered onto the screen. 'Stepan Yefimovich Volkov. Russian national, now resident in London. He's met with Sidorov a few times over the past few months.'

'Is he on our radar?' Adam's gaze moved between her and the projection.

Jo raised her shoulders a fraction. 'Nothing to attract much attention. He was snapped in the routine sweeps, that's all.'

'What is he?'

'He has the looks of a cheap thug.' The observation was Harry's. It was answered by wry smiles that he didn't see.

'Not that cheap,' Jo answered. 'Multi-millionaire. Multi-multi, probably. Volkov has business interests all over Britain, off-shore accounts, real estate and businesses back in Russia...'

'Mafia?'

'Maybe. Maybe not. And I know how much you like maybes, Harry – sorry about that.'

A moment, then he smiled. 'Well, we can't be expected to know everything right out of the gate. I suppose.'

Ros' eyebrows raised slightly. She glanced at Jo before settling a querying glance on Adam. He shook his head. Of all of them, only Ruth was smiling slightly, head down, tilted.

Harry leaned his elbows on the table. 'Rosalind-'

'Kazakov?'

He nodded. 'Kazakov. Give him another shake, see if he rattles.'

Her lips curved. 'Gladly.'

Harry's fingers beat against the table, eyes fixed on a point halfway across the polished surface. There were other possible avenues that would yield information. Ones that required very careful negotiation. He roused himself.

'We'll keep on looking into Volkov...' Jo trailed off uncertainly. 'I, uh, I thought we might run his name past the Americans. If any of his business deals have involved weapons he might have been flagged on their watch lists.'

Harry breathed heavily down his nose. He was all for cross-Atlantic co-operation. When it was absolutely necessary. 'I'd prefer it if that could be kept as low-key as possible, Joanna.' He looked at Ruth. She was smiling again.

'Is that low-key as in accessing parts of the Langley mainframe without them knowing, Harry?'

Her eyes glittered. She had always been so good at this job. If she were on anyone's side but theirs she would have been terrifying.

'Well, if you're offering, Ruth.' He looked them over. Zaf was squirming in his chair, trying to look as though he weren't. 'I think that's all.'

They filed out. Ruth gathered her papers, waiting until the others had gone. 'Harry.'

He turned at the door, waited then took a step back towards her.

'Yes?'

'You- you didn't tell them.'

'You noticed.'

Her lips tightened. 'I just thought-'

'What?'

'Don't you think you should tell them about this?'

'I don't even know what "this" is yet, Ruth. And it is being dealt with,' he talked over her. They stared at each other for a moment.

She shifted the papers in her arms. Did she ever take two steps without being weighed down? he wondered. 'Is that why you asked me to keep an eye on the investigation? Is this what you were expecting?'

'No. I wasn't expecting anything. This is- This could be just a co-incidence.'

'Yes.' She nodded. 'Yes, I see. But you don't believe in co-incidences, Harry.'

He allowed himself another smile. 'No.'

ooOoo

Two children and a dog were fighting for possession of a brightly coloured ball. High-pitched laughter and yelps were carried on the breeze up the hill. She was on the side of the dog. Ros closed her eyes for a moment, turning her face up to the winter sunshine. She turned to her companion, running her finger along the yellow chalk-mark on the worn wooden slat and brushing it off.

'What's with all the fun and games?'

A chalk-mark on the third pillar of the pavilion. A new pin as counter-sign. Rendezvous an hour later on a bench on Primrose Hill. Every bloody cliché in the book, she thought. In a lot of books. He smiled broadly.

'The old Moscow Rules, Roza, I have always wanted to try them. Make me feel like a proper spy.'

She laughed in spite of herself. 'A spy playing at being a spy? Well, I think I've heard everything now, Lyova.'

He had invested, she noted with some amusement, in a fine overcoat, English style. A cashmere scarf was visible beneath the velvet collar.

'The old school ways, I like them very much.' Kazakov gazed out appreciatively at the scene. The air was clear, everything sharply defined, the ground still whitened with residual frost. 'So, my Roza, this is becoming a habit, yes? If we keep meeting like this, people will talk.' He laughed at his own joke.

She smiled thinly. 'Yes, and they'll be saying that I have appalling taste in men.'

He laughed again, gloved hands clapping together, leather against leather like a muffled crack of a whip. His eyes were still hard. 'Well, well...' He turned towards her more. 'What can I do for you this time?'

'I have another name for you.' The breeze snatched at her hair; she smoothed it away from her face. 'Stepan Yefimovich Volkov.' Ros pronounced the name carefully. Knowing Russian had stopped being a desirable skill years ago. It might be time for a reassessment.

Kazakov considered the name. 'Volkov... One of our new breed of entrepreneurs.'

'Is he mafia?'

A shrug. 'What is mafia? According to them they are businessmen. Volkov is a businessman.'

'So, is that a yes, Lyova?'

Another shrug of that ineffable type she always associated with Slavs. 'He is a man who has taken to heart the great lesson we learnt from the West - always look out for number one. We are a society of individuals now, Roza, everyone wants as much as they get and to hell with the rest. This is the free market economy.' A pause. 'It is a beautiful idea, but like so many beautiful ideas...' He spread his hands; Ros had never heard him talk like this before and watched in fascination. 'Like so many it becomes ugly.'

'Like Communism?'

He laughed. 'You know, for many back home Stalin is a hero. Soon they will be putting all of his statues back. Another beautiful dream. The reality is always different.'

The dog had been put back on its lead, the children, still squabbling, were being marshalled away.

'Volkov. He has, I think, been linked to a man who is linked to a man who sold arms to the Chechens.'

So Jo was right, she thought. 'Do you have proof?'

'You know what money trails are like: hard to follow unless someone is very careless, and Volkov is not careless. He is a dangerous man, Roza, you should be very careful.'

Her eyes narrowed, squinting against the light. 'Lyova, I didn't know you cared.'

His laughter rang out.

ooOoo

'Honestly, Harry, when I said to ask someone else next time, I meant it.'

'This isn't a favour as much as an exchange of information.'

Mia sipped her wine, glaring at him over the rim of her glass. A vision in soft wool and leather. She had, as she always did, attracted some not-too-well-concealed interest as she had walked across the restaurant to him. Harry wondered if she were truly as oblivious to it as she appeared.

'All right, shoot.' She held up her hands. 'Not literally.'

'Mia.' A habitual warning.

She laughed. 'I wouldn't put it past you.' She settled back, idly toying with the stem of her glass. 'Well? Tell me, then.'

'Do you know a Stepan Volkov?'

Mia frowned. More wine, glass replaced carefully on the table, then, 'I know of him.'

Harry waited. She sighed. 'He has so-called business interests all over London. I shudder to think what they are.'

'How well do you know him?'

'God, Harry, I'm starting to wonder just what it is you think I do. I do not, for the record, hang out with Russian mafia as a matter of course.'

'So he definitely is one our latest criminal imports?'

A shrug. 'Possibly. Probably.' A moment. Mia blew out a breath. 'Your best bet for information on Volkov is probably Nadya.'

His head tilted. 'Nadya?'

'Nadezhda Sergeyevna Maslova. She's a journalist - freelance. She's very good. She's been investigating most of the Russian businessmen who've washed up in London and I know that Volkov is a special interest of hers.'

'Any particular reason?'

'I don't know.'

Harry topped up her wine. 'You're good friends with her?'

She inclined her head and pulled her glass closer, fingers running up and down the stem. 'As good a friend as is possible with Nadya. She's... Well, I wouldn't say that she's impossible to get close to but she's up there in the top three. Right after Bin Laden and you.'

'Illustrious company. Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' She grinned at him. Mia, he had decided, was in the top three most infuriating people he had ever known. 'You won't get anything out of her by hauling her in, by the way. Nadya had a few run-ins with the KGB back in the day and after the Lubyanka I doubt that even your interrogation techniques would hold much fear for her, Harry. You might want to try the subtle approach.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' he responded drily. 'I don't know how I manage to run my section without your advice, Mia, I really don't.'

Her eyes crinkled. She had been away; somewhere hot, he thought: her skin was a shade darker, more streaks in her hair. Natural, even he could tell that. 'You want me to set up a meeting with Nadya?'

'Mmm.' He frowned, looked up. 'Mmm, yes, thank you. I'll want to put you together with someone else first.'

'The inside man?'

'That's need to know, Mia.'

'I'll be vouching for them, Harry, I _will_ need to know.'

'And you will.' A slight movement of her eyebrows. 'As much as you need to, when I decide you need to.' She rolled her eyes expressively at him.

'So, how's Ruth?'

'She's fine, thank you.'

'She's fine, thank you,' Mia repeated. 'I don't think I've ever heard you gush like that before.'

He met sardonic green eyes and scowled at her. 'What more do you want to know?'

Mia scrutinised him, sat back with a sigh. 'Don't worry, I think that's told me all I need to know. The pair of you are absolutely bloody useless.'

'I'll tell her.' A pause. 'I understand you offered her a job.'

Her eyes gleamed. 'I did. She's brilliant.'

'I know.'

'A little crazy.'

'Probably why you like her.'

'Why, Harry, I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.' She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Harry laughed. 'I did tell her that she'd have far more fun working with me.'

Another pause. Mia was absorbed in her wine.

'Well?'

'Well what?'

His voice cracked with impatience. 'What was her reply?'

Her lips pursed as she considered this. 'I don't think I can tell you. Confidentiality and all that.'

Harry leaned forward. 'Mia, tell me something – how has someone not strangled you before today?'

She grinned again. 'Never mind. Why don't you bring her to the wedding? She can be your plus one. It will save me the cost of a stamp.'

'Wedding? Yours?'

A nod.

'That- That's wonderful, Mia. Congratulations – to you and Jake. It, uh, it is still Jake, isn't it?'

'Last I checked.' She was trying not to look too pleased, but she glowed. Harry covered her hand with his. It was about time, he thought. That had been a long road.

'It's good news, Mia. I'm happy for you.'

For a moment her eyes dropped then met his; she squeezed his hand. 'Thanks.'

Harry looked at his watch, sighed. 'I better get back.' He stood, moved to retrieve her coat.

'Uh, Harry?'

He looked at her.

'Haven't you forgotten something?'

'What?'

'You did say that this was an exchange of information; I assumed that you had something for me.'

'Did I say that?' Harry held the coat out. 'Must have been a slip of the tongue.'

Mia stood, breathed out heavily, as he drew the coat up her arms. 'I'll slip you something one of these days.' She turned. 'How do you like your arsenic?'

'Wrapped in a good twenty-five-year-old malt.'

'Twenty-five? You'll be lucky.' She presented her cheek to him, which he duly kissed. 'Take care, Harry.'

'You too. I'll be in touch.'

_TBC_


	6. Believers

Chapter Six: Believers 

Jo adjusted the bag on her shoulder. It was fine leather and expensive. Tassels, metal studs, heavy buckle, large enough to carry all the things she would need with her in her career chasing stories and getting interviews. A graduation present from her mother for the life she had thought her daughter would have. The one Jo had thought she would have. It was finally being put to its intended use.

When she had first started in this new, twilight, life, she had still read the newspapers and scoffed at the articles that she could have written so much better herself. She had done that even a few months ago. Now she just wondered what would have happened if she hadn't been so intrigued by a gas meter-reader with an unusual line in chat, read her horoscope for the day, and headed out to save the country from Armageddon. Again.

She ducked into the dark doorway between a newsagents and a grocery store selling anaemic-looking vegetables and mounted the stairs. Cheap carpet, worn in the middle. The air smelt of ingrained dirt and cigarette smoke; the wallpaper was faded, the clashing colours and execrable Seventies design still discernible.

Zaf didn't like her doing this. She didn't like him doing it, but that was different. Not that he dare say that, but she could see it in his eyes.

The door held a frosted glass panel with the name 'Maslova' in chipped gold letters. She knocked, waited until a rasping voice told her to come in. The air was thick with smoke; it caught at the back of her throat and she coughed. Jo blinked rapidly.

Nadezhda Sergeyevna Maslova was a small, hard woman. Hair, a strange burnished brown, bushy, cut short. Thin face, her features looked like they'd been carved into it with a knife. Her eyes were keen and dark and suspicious.

'So. You are Mia's friend?'

She had met with Mia Kenton for all of twenty minutes. An anonymous hotel room, with Harry looking on. Jo knew her face from photographs, her voice, horribly distorted, from a recording and anything else from Zaf's edited account. She knew it was edited. Not because he was hiding anything, but because that was just how it worked.

'That's right. She told me about the work you're doing – I asked her to put in a word for me.'

'Why?'

'Because I believe in it. I think it's important.'

'_Don't give her any flannel and for God's sake sound like you mean it. She can spot a phoney at a thousand paces.'_

'_Right. Thanks.'_

'_Don't thank me; I'm acting in my own interest. If Nadya works out what you are she'll probably take out a contract on me.'_

So, no pressure there then, Jo thought. Nadya took out another cigarette – slim, black – raised it to her lips, lit it, blue smoke obscured her features momentarily. Her eyes never left Jo's face.

'I see; so, you are an idealist?'

'Yes. I suppose so.'

She blew out a trail of smoke. 'You don't look like an idealist.'

Jo's fingers curled around the strap of her bag. 'I didn't know that idealists looked like anything.'

A tilt of the head that could have been a concession. The door behind her opened suddenly, Jo was forced forward a few steps, turned to see the newcomer. A tall girl: hair and eyes so dark they were almost black, glasses and the pale skin of someone who never got enough fresh air. She looked at Jo with immediate distrust. Jo would have called it hostility.

Her eyes darted from the blonde to Nadya and back.

'Stop hovering, Lara, sit down.'

Jo smiled and held out a hand. 'Hi. Jo Portman.'

The girl looked down as though Jo were offering her something slimy. A dead thing.

'This is the one that Mia sent. The one that wants to be a journalist.' Nadya lit another cigarette from the dying embers of the first.

'Why come here?' Her accent was a curious mixture of her native Ukraine and her adopted London. Mia had had a few choice words to describe Larisa Petrenko; they had been far too complimentary. 'I thought all English girls want to write features on plastic surgery for _Heat_ magazine.'

A moment and Jo smiled. 'I do, but they aren't hiring this week.'

Her thin lips compressed to nothingness; Nadya's sandpaper laugh made her start. Jo watched the brunette for a moment, then glanced at the older woman.

'This is my assistant, Larisa Ivanovna. You can call her Lara. I'll give you a couple of days ... Joanna?'

'Yeah. Yes, Joanna. Or Jo, if you prefer; I don't mind.'

'Joanna. A couple of days and I'll see how you get on. If I'm not pleased you can get out. I don't have time for people who don't work and who don't do what I want. Understand?'

'I understand. And thank you, it's a great-'

'It is not an opportunity. You will get no gratitude, not from me, not from anybody else.'

'Okay.'

Nadya moved her chair closer to her computer, stubbing out her cigarette, her eyes fixed on the screen. 'We only have two computers – you'll have to take notes by hand.'

Jo perched awkwardly on the edge of a chair already laden with boxes and files. Lara's dark hair fell across her face, but Jo could see her smile.

ooOoo

Juliet's fingers drummed against the desktop; her eyes were icy. 'You had assured me that this was all over, Harry.'

'I don't believe I ever used the word "assured", Juliet.'

'Don't be so bloody facetious.'

His hands rested loosely on the armrests of his chair. 'It still may not actually mean anything.'

She rolled her eyes in disgust. 'Oh, please. If you believed that you would not be sitting here and we would not be having this conversation.'

A slight shrug. 'Perhaps.'

'You can't do coy, Harry; don't even try.'

Harry's lips twitched. There was a certain enjoyment to be had in the running battles with Juliet. They both liked a good fight. She sighed, running a hand through her hair, one rigid lock immediately falling in a wave across her forehead; she pushed it back impatiently. Harry had kept the photographs locked carefully in the top drawer of his desk and then kept with him at all times until this meeting. Juliet's face had remained impassive as she looked at them; but when her eyes were raised to meet this, they blazed. She picked up one photograph by its corner, held it delicately as though it burnt.

'What are you doing with these, anyway?'

He raised his chin, gazing at her levelly. 'I asked Ruth to keep a discreet eye on the investigation. She came up with this.'

A breath blown out that could have been concealing a laugh. 'Ruth. Of course. I should have known.' A beat while she avoided saying anything more. 'I thought that you'd said that this could be safely left with the police.'

'As you are aware, Juliet, a certain amount of paranoia is desirable in our line of work. Besides,' his voice hardened, 'I wanted to be absolutely sure that Oliver Mace wasn't keeping anything from us.'

Juliet dropped the photograph back onto her desk; it skidded across the surface. 'Do you think he knew that his ... friend ... was so cosy with Russian mafia?'

The images were perfect in their detailed clarity. There was no mistaking the unspoken language of two people who were accustomed to each other's presence. Yakov Uspensky and Stepan Volkov. Two nightmares that had somehow found each other. Harry could feel the headache beginning to build behind his eyes.

'I doubt it. Mace may be guilty of many things, but even I can't see him throwing his lot in with that.' He waved a hand dismissively at the picture.

'Let's hope you're right, Harry.'

'Amazing how you always manage to make moral support sound like a threat.'

Juliet smiled with deceptive sweetness. 'So glad that we understand one another. Now, about Volkov.'

Harry shifted in the chair. Did she have them specially made to maximise discomfort? 'Well?'

'Well, I shouldn't have to ask, Harry. You are supposed to keep me informed of all-'

'I know the speech by heart, Juliet, you don't need to repeat it. Again.'

'Apparently I do and I will until you finally tell me what I need to know before I have to drag it out of you myself.' Juliet took a breath. 'Does Volkov have access to sarin?'

'At the moment that is what I believe our American friends would refer to as a known unknown.'

She glared at him. 'Must we? Every time?'

'In the current climate, one must takes one's amusement where one can, don't you think?'

His face was grave but his eyes glittered. Juliet tossed her head back, refusing to smile. The man was insufferable at times. 'Why don't you just pick him up? And Sidorov.'

'With what evidence?' Harry turned a hand palm upwards, questioning. 'All we have are a handful of photographs and some inadmissible audio surveillance. Unless, of course, there's has been a change in legislation of which I am unaware that would actually allow us to use the intelligence we've gathered to-'

'Yes, yes, yes, all right. I'm familiar with _that_ speech.' They exchanged a smile. 'Politics, hey?'

Harry stood up. 'That's more your department than mine, Juliet. Thank God.'

'Harry, I think that we're all grateful for that.'

ooOoo

'You look worried.'

'Hmmm.' Ruth raised her head. 'Sorry, what?'

'Worried,' Adam repeated. He smiled a little, leant against her desk. 'That's how you're looking.'

'Oh.' She raised a hand to her forehead as though to smooth away the lines. 'I'm not, well, I am- No. Not worried, exactly. I just-just have a feeling.'

Adam's eyes lingered on her face. He believed in instinct but drew the line at what was termed intuition. And once, perhaps, he would have given Ruth a consoling word or two, then forgotten about it. Not any more. 'A feeling about what?'

A moment and he wondered if she had heard him. Ruth looked up again. 'Volkov. There's something, Adam, I just can't put my finger on it. And I don't just mean-'

A pause. She wasn't quite looking at him. And she didn't look happy.

'What?'

Her eyes dropped. 'I, uh, I think I'll have a word with Harry.'

Adam frowned. 'Ruth, you can talk to me, you know.'

There was genuine surprise on her face. 'I know. Adam, it isn't- It's just something I should talk to Harry about. Don't worry about it.'

He hadn't started out being the one doing the worrying.

ooOoo

Zaf finished the magazine article and realised that he hadn't absorbed a word of it. He drank his beer, noticing the damp rings on the surface it had left behind. They drove Jo crazy.

He wouldn't look at his watch.

She had been undercover before. She had been away before. But before had been different and he couldn't admit the change, even to himself.

The hands had moved on little more than five minutes from the last time he had checked.

It wasn't as though they kept regular hours. A job was done when it was done. And then there would be the debriefing, the picking over of every word, every gesture, every nuance; Ros was running her and she liked to do a thorough job. Say Jo had got to the Grid half-an-hour ago, she would probably still have another half-hour to-

The lock clicked, door rattling. Zaf leant against the breakfast bar, carried on reading his magazine.

_TBC_


	7. Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter Seven: Smoke and Mirrors

'It isn't going to be easy getting the bugs in there.' Jo sipped her coffee, perched on a stool. 'They're both cooped up in there all the time. Nadya has the place swept periodically, apparently, and she's got a hefty security alarm in place.'

Zaf grunted in sympathy, sipped his coffee and winced. Jo never made it strong enough. She saw his reaction. 'Best make it yourself next time.'

'You are all heart, Joanna Portman.'

She smiled, rested her chin heavily on her palm. 'You've got another meeting with Sidorov today, don't you?'

'Yeah.' He set down his mug. They were opposite each other, the bar between them. Her face was closed and controlled. 'I've never heard anyone talk so much and say so little. The glories of the old Soviet Union. The great destiny of his country. How utterly amazing as a human being he is.' He rubbed his face. 'Any more and I'm going to take out my gun and shoot him between the eyes.'

'That'll please Harry.'

Zaf grunted. 'Dunno. Might be worth it.'

Their words came in short sentences. Neither were much good in the morning until after the first cup of coffee. It was one of the things that Zaf had first appreciated in her. He despised forced jollity so soon after sunrise.

He drained the mug; Jo was holding hers between her hands, staring into it. 'More?' She roused herself and smiled again.

'Please. Your turn. But not as strong as last time – I ended up with my hands shaking and my heart racing.'

'No, that was because you were standing next to me.' He passed behind her, lips brushing against the side of her neck.

'Idiot.' She turned on her stool and for a moment they both enjoyed the simple intimacy of one look. Jo reached out and smoothed a rebellious lock of his hair. Her fingers trailed across his cheek, down to his jaw line, still swollen from the assault. 'Does it still hurt?'

'It's not too bad.'

Her hand was still against his face. 'Good.'

ooOoo

The main lights on the Grid had not been switched on, but his office glowed vivid red against the gloom. Harry pushed back the door, stood in the doorway and waited until she looked up at him.

'This is becoming a habit.'

Ruth smiled. 'At least I don't burst in on you as much.'

'Mmm. And just when I was getting used to it.'

Harry crossed the floor, depositing his coat and assorted possessions on the sofa before taking a seat opposite her. He glanced around. 'It all looks different from this angle.'

'A change of perspective can be good.' She tried to sound to grave but her eyes gleamed. Just for a moment. 'Harry, I wanted to talk to you about Volkov.'

Of course, he thought, what else? In all the world, and all the things that could be said, why not talk about this? 'What about him? Is he a secret FSB stooge?'

She didn't laugh. 'Well, actually-'

'Oh, for God's sake, Ruth-'

'There's just something about his back story,' she said loudly.

A pause.

'Well? What thing?'

Ruth let out a breath. Under the table, her hands were clasped together, nails tearing at skin. 'Just- just something. I don't know exactly. It looks- It looks like a legend, Harry. A good one, but a legend. It reads like just all of the things that you'd expect to hear about a Russian ... businessman ... living in the West. It's just too perfect. And nothing can ever be perfect.'

He studied her. 'That's a rather pessimistic view, Ruth.'

Two spots of colour flaring in her cheeks. 'Maybe. But it's true, isn't it?'

He was a pragmatist. He was under no illusions about what human beings were capable of, good or bad. And he had seen mainly bad. But this brought a wave of depression. Maybe because it was her. Maybe because life and time got everyone in the end, even when you hoped it never would.

'Yes, I suppose it is. And I suppose that you want to do a little digging.'

Her head was held high, daring him to deny her this. 'Well, with what we know about his connection to that young man...' It wasn't quite an accusation. She had always hated secrets. There was an obvious irony there. 'It would seem ... prudent.'

'I can almost hear the words dereliction of duty there.'

Her eyes flashed. 'That isn't what I mea- I didn't say that, Harry.'

'No.' He allowed himself a smile. 'No, I know. And you're right – perhaps more than we realise.'

A querying look; she sat very still. Harry waved a hand. 'I don't know any more than that. Just be careful, Ruth, we don't want the whole of Moscow knowing what we're doing.'

She smiled and it lit up the room. 'They never do.'

She was almost at the door.

'I'm almost too afraid to ask what you mean by that, Ruth.'

ooOoo

Jo was becoming convinced that smoke was being used as a psychological weapon. The windows were never opened. It seemed a genuine possibility that they were welded shut. New legislation evidently didn't penetrate to this little corner of England that was forever Moscow. The smell was ingrained in her hair, her skin, it made her feel sick. She was determined not to show any discomfort, but she knew that the girl, Lara, was enjoying every moment.

Those dark eyes always seemed to be watching. She wasn't an assistant, she was a pit-bull. Badly trained.

Jo pulled the hair away from her face, tying it roughly in a band. It felt coarse against her fingers and she grimaced inwardly. She had been right about fitting the bugs: Lara and Nadya were almost always in the cramped offices, either singly or together. Almost.

An opportunity, in the shape of an unexpected ten minutes, had presented itself. Maybe less than that, but it was nearly enough for Jo to believe that if there were angels, she really was fighting on their side. Or they on hers.

She moved quickly, retrieving the tiny devices from her bag. Malcolm had briefly considered equipping her with a series of his vintage Soviet pieces. For the atmosphere, he had informed her gravely. Her face had, apparently, spoken volumes and he had duly handed over the requisite state-of-the-art technology. Malcolm was the undisputed technical genius in their midst, but she had a feeling that he imbued his mini-museum to the art of surveillance with a certain romantic yearning.

This was always the part she hated: when she seemed to be moving as though underwater and everything else was at hyper-speed. She tried to keep herself focused and keep herself distracted from the hammering in her chest at the same time.

_Music on a cracked radio ... I hate that song ... Smell of burnt toast, just like this morning, Zaf's face..._

She had done this too many times to count and her fingers still felt thick, heavy. A trickle of sweat ran down her back; she leant across Nadya's desk, balanced precariously.

_Stay calm. Just remember to breath ... Zaf always says easy as falling off a log ... Damn thing won't stick, what crap has Malcolm given me ... Fall off a log, the boy hasn't been near a bit of nature in years, wouldn't know a log if he did fall off ... Shit. Nadya? Lara? Shit, shit, shit_...

'What are you doing?'

Lara. Her voice had deepened with suspicion. Hard, sharp. Jo didn't move at once, leant a little further over.

'I'm just-' Words cut off in an indistinct grunt. She straightened up, brushing hair away from her face, smiled cheerfully. 'Serves me right for playing with it the whole time. It rolled right under the desk.' A heavy silver ring. It had been her grandmother's and she had longed for it since she had first seen it at age four. At age sixteen it had become hers. Larisa Ivanovna took a few steps closer, too close. She breathed heavily, bringing a cloud of cloying perfume and coffee.

'What do you want here? You're not one of us, you stupid English girl. Why are you here?'

Jo eyed her levelly. 'I came to work. Just like you.'

Her mouth twisted. 'You are nothing like me.'

'Lara!'

The girl stiffened. Nadya, moving from the doorway to her desk, looked at them both with cold distaste. 'Do you have nothing to do, eh? I pay you to gossip?'

'She was at your desk,' Lara stated. The petulance of a child.

'I wasn't at her – your – desk, Nadya, I just dropped my ring. I had-'

'I don't give a damn about your jewellery.'

Jo felt mild hysteria rising, laughter she could barely contain. A strange recklessness. 'Actually, Nadya, I was wondering if we could open a window – it's a bit stuffy in here.'

Cigarette in her mouth, Nadya searched her desk for the lighter. She shrugged. 'Do what you want. Lara, open a window.'

Coal black eyes burnt. Jo smiled back.

ooOoo

'You bloody idiot.'

Mace's eyebrows raised. 'What?'

By the time Harry was escorted to the small, whitewashed room, his patience was all but worn down. Over half-an-hour spent kicking his heels in the governor's office had done nothing to improve his temper. He rested both fists on the table, leant heavily and stared at the man's upturned face.

'I am talking about you and Yakov Uspensky.'

'Oh, for the love of God.' Mace sank back, folded his arms, stared at an unremarkable spot on the wall opposite. 'I thought we had been through all of this. Don't tell me you've tracked down that little tramp of his. By the sound of her she'd say anything for five quid.'

Harry gritted his teeth. Violence was not a way of life but there times he could feel himself slipping into it all too easily. The desire to inflict pain seemed too much. When he trusted himself to speak he said, 'Oliver, I am in no mood for games. There are no rumours, no bargains, no lies. I want the truth, and I want it now.'

'Oh, very impressive, Harry. Tell me, do you practice these speeches in your shaving mirror?'

The hand slammed against the table made him jump. It brought a grimly satisfied smile to Harry's lips.

'I'll start it from the other end, Oliver. Stepan Yefimovich Volkov. Known to his friends, of whom there are few, as Styopa. Are you one of them?'

There were beads of sweat on Mace's upper lip. A faint, perpetual wheezing as he breathed.

'Who the hell is Stepan Whatever Volkov?'

Harry leant closer, his voice dropping so low Mace had to strain to hear him.

'He is someone who counted amongst those few friends of his Yakov Uspensky.'

'A Russian émigré friendly with another Russian émigré. Shocking. It's good to know that MI5 is still shedding light on such mysteries.'

Harry barely blinked, watching every twitch of the muscles in the hands resting on Mace's knees, in the flaccid face.

'Volkov is Russian mafia, Oliver, and he is a known arms dealer. And he may very well be about to sell sarin to a group of Belarus terrorists who have joined forces with a splinter cell of Al-Qaeda sympathisers. So, I'll ask you again, Oliver – do you know Stepan Volkov?'

There was silence for a moment. Mace's mouth opened but no sound came out. 'Harry, I- For God's sake, you can't honestly believe that I would be involved with the Russian mob.'

Harry's head tilted. 'Can't I?'

Mace looked appalled. 'I know we've had our differences-' A bitter laugh. 'Our differences,' he continued. 'But you don't- Just what do you think I am?'

His eyes glittered dangerously. 'Oh, Oliver, I really don't think you want to hear the answer to that question.' He was pacing the meagre length of the room, harsh lighting sending his shadow in a giant's sarabande across the walls. 'At the moment, you appear to be posing a bloody great risk to national security. Where did you meet Volkov?'

'I never met Volkov. I've never even heard the name before tonight.'

Harry crossed the room, shoved a photograph across the table.

'You and your damn photographs. It's becoming a fetish, Harry.'

'Just look at it.'

Mace obliged, studying the image for a moment before letting it drop. 'I've never seen this man in my life.'

A heavy breath, in and out. 'Where did you meet Uspensky?'

'Harry-'

'Where did you meet Uspensky?'

'It was a long time ago.'

'Damn it, Oliver, I don't have time for this. None of us do. We have a terrorist threat against God knows who, God knows when and the only things that I know for certain that are mixed up in all of this are a Russian criminal of very shady provenance and you. So start talking. Where did you meet Yakov Uspensky?'

'A party. There were no mobsters there. I-it was a party. We were introduced.'

He looked genuinely rattled. A rare sight and Harry felt a descending coldness.

'By whom?'

'Kazakov. It was his party. Lev Kazakov.'

_TBC_


	8. Kaleidoscope

Chapter Eight: Kaleidoscope

The eyes around the table regarded him with a mixture of accusation and weariness. They would soon recover from it. Harry met them unflinchingly. It was not his job to be their friend. Ruth's face was flushed. With her head bowed she kept shuffling through her small stock of files, bits of paper. It was driving him crazy.

Ros' face was pale. Pinched. Those normally clear eyes almost black and he felt a twinge of sympathy for the man he would unleash her on. 'Rosalind.' He paused. She looked up. 'I suppose you know what comes next?'

A slight movement of her head. 'Kazakov.'

'As you say, Kazakov. Get him in here. Put him in the holding cells if you have to. I want the truth out of him, once and for all.'

And he wasn't the only one. Her mouth was set in a rigid line and Harry remembered that once, near the beginning of her career somewhere along the Iranian border with Iraq, she had killed an armed man with her bare hands.

There were heavy circles under Jo's eyes. Zaf hadn't bothered to shave. It was only a little after six now, they could be forgiven a certain laxity. 'I take it that you all have jobs to do?'

Exchanged looks and they pushed back their chairs. Adam caught Ruth's eyes; her cheeks turned a deeper red and she hurried past him. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

'Adam – a moment?'

He hung back. Harry hadn't moved from his chair, eyes fixed at a point on the table. When they had filed out and Ruth had pulled the door shut, he looked up.

'The words 'dark' and 'horse' spring to mind, Harry.'

His lips twisted wryly. 'I'm sure they do. No doubt you think I should have told you about this earlier.'

The you was vague. All of them, or just him? Adam didn't ask. It would have been pointless. He chose a shrug. 'Maybe. I like to think that you had your reasons.'

'Kind of you.'

Adam smiled, leaned back in his chair. 'So, what's the deal?'

The older man regarded him, pained. 'Must you?'

He grinned. 'You were asking for it.'

A noncommittal grunt. Harry straightened up. 'We need to find information on Volkov – as much as we can, as soon as we can. Ruth has been working on it but she seems to have hit a brick wall.'

Harry allowed the implications to sink in.

'And you know where we _can_ find intelligence on Volkov?'

'I know where we might,' Harry corrected. 'I'd like you to come along, as an observer.'

Adam smiled again. 'An opportunity to watch the great Harry Pearce in action in the field? I wouldn't miss it.'

Harry's shoulders hunched fractionally, caught somewhere between pleasure and exasperation.

ooOoo

Ros dropped heavily into the chair, staring ahead. Ruth glanced up, down to her desk, back up again.

'Son of a bitch.'

Ruth's eyes widened. 'Who?'

Ros glared at her. Or rather, she was glaring - Ruth just got caught in it. 'Kazakov,' she said icily. 'He played me. All that crap about ideals and the old days and- And playing at being a spy. And I believed him.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, "oh." Well summarised, Ruth.'

Ruth breathed heavily down her nose. 'You'd better bring him in again, then.'

Some of the tension left Ros' face. It was almost like amusement in her eyes. 'Well, well. That's me told.' She paused. 'He's still a bastard.'

'Oh, absolutely.'

Amusement again. Ros reached for the phone.

ooOoo

The drive across town was a largely silent one. Harry's fingers drummed on the seat, occasionally interspersed with questions about Wes. It had been unexpected, the bond between Harry and the little boy. Out of all the people that Adam knew it seemed the most unlikely pairing. But the child was genuinely fond of his honorary uncle and Harry was remarkably tender with Wes.

The car took them to Highgate. A narrow, run-down street and then an even more run-down house. Paint was peeling from the facade, burst bin-bags, their rotting contents scattered near the steps, were piled high. The smell caught at the back of the throat, brought an immediate wave of nausea. Dirty net curtains didn't stir at the windows; one of the panes held a faded CND sticker. It brought a wry smile to Adam's lips. The place looked like the end of the world anyway.

There were no names by the buttons, just numbers. Harry pressed one; only moment's delay and then a tinny buzz, a click and Harry pushed the door open. The air inside the cramped entry hall smelt musty and faintly of urine. They started up the stairs; both instinctively avoided using the handrail.

'This is appalling.' Harry's jaw was clenched. It wasn't just disgust, Adam realised, it was anger. 'Ending up like this-' He bit off his own words. Adam followed him silently. From behind one of the closed doors he could hear a dog yapping furiously.

Their destination was the top floor. Harry's already erect shoulders straightened. Adam still maintained his position behind and slightly to the side. If a threat came from inside the flat or from behind them he was best placed to defend them both. He saw Harry's glance, saw the faint smile and felt slightly foolish.

After Harry's knock there were sounds of life. Heavy footsteps approaching the door, then silence. Someone was looking at them through the peephole. The rattle of a chain, a bolt being drawn back. The door opened suddenly, the man inside stepping back to clear it. They entered silently. Adam closed the door behind them.

'Harry Pearce!'

'Hello, Nikolai Andreyevich.'

They embraced heartily, heavy cuffs across each other's backs. It put Adam in mind of two great black bears colliding.

'It has been too long, old friend. Too long.'

'It has, Kolya. You've been well?'

One large hand tilted one way then the other. 'I stay well, Harry. I have no complaints.' Black eyes were fixed on Adam.

'Kolya, this is Adam Carter. Adam, Nikolai Andreyevich Tikhomirov.' It was a bone-crushing handshake. Adam gritted his teeth, pulled his lips back in approximation of a smile.

Nikolai Andreyevich Tikhomirov. Colonel Tikhomirov, formerly of the Red Army until he had chosen to defect. Not to the Americans, not to the French, he had wanted the British. Tradecraft had been flawless; he had brought them everything they had wanted and more. Until his cover had been blown and he had been forced to run. He got out, his wife didn't. And, as Harry had said, to end up like this. The flat was clean but shabby. Lenin, in watercolour, observed proceedings from a frame. A slim glass case containing military medals took pride of place on the mantelpiece.

'Come. Sit.'

They were herded to a sofa. Tikhomirov folded his limbs into an armchair. A thick thatch of white hair, blazing eyes and a face that looked as though it had been hewn from rock. He pushed glasses at them. 'You are here for business, Harry, but first we drink.'

Vodka. The fumes alone made Adam's eyes water. Three glasses were raised in salute. It trickled down the back of Adam's throat and he could feel it burn. He closed his eyes instinctively but that only seemed to hold the vapours in. His head was about to explode. He saw Harry's quiet smile again and swore at him inwardly. He replaced the glass on the table firmly. Tikhomirov clapped his hands together, laughed.

'Good. He drinks like a Cossack.'

Harry drained his glass. 'Very nice. Thank you, Kolya.'

'More?'

'Please.'

'Mister Carter?' His 'r's rolled ostentatiously. Adam waved a hand.

'No, thanks.'

Another laugh. 'So, Harry. This is a long way from Thames House. This is something important, yes?'

'It's always something important with you, Kolya.'

'Ha! Flattery.' He waggled a finger at Adam. The knuckles were gnarled, reddened. 'Silver-tongue, that is the expression, I think. That is what your boss is, Mister Carter. And he knows it.'

Harry leaned back against the sofa. Its stuffing was meagre. The room held the chill of a place that was rarely heated properly. Millions of pounds spent fighting a losing war and a man like Nikolai... If he had to fiddle the accounts of every department in Thames House to get the money, he'd do it.

'I need your help, Kolya. Specifically, I need your memory.'

'Of course.' The old man finished his vodka, pushed the glass away. There was a fierce intelligence there. He wasn't the sort of man, Adam thought, you wanted to be on the wrong side of.

Harry pulled a photograph from his pocket; something Mace had said flitted through his mind. He handed it to Tikhomirov. 'We know him as Volkov. Stepan Yefimovich Volkov.'

'And?'

'And we think he's someone else.'

A breath rumbled in his chest, released slowly. The fire in those dark eyes dimmed, focusing on the photograph. There was an unexpected delicacy in the way he held its edges.

'Volkov.'

'Yes.' Harry leant forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gesture was almost one of appeal. 'Do you know him, Kolya?'

Tikhomirov raised his head slowly. 'The current president of my country is a big man, a hard man. Of this, he is proud. He believes in the old ways – he relies on old friends, keeps them very, very close.' He poured a little vodka into his glass, held it up, swirled the liquid around and watched it cling to the sides.

'Volkov, Kolya.'

The glass was emptied, replaced.

'Is he mafia?'

He held the photograph up again, let go and Adam watched its progress to the floor. He dragged his eyes back to the Russian's face.

'No.'

The man was enjoying this, Adam thought. He couldn't begrudge him the performance, somehow.

'Not mafia.'

'You remember him? You know who he is?'

There was more laughter. 'You still cannot quite control that patience, Harry. Yes, I remember him. I remember that face. I always remember faces. That is something very useful in the field, it helps you work out who is the friend and who is the enemy.' He glanced down at the picture on the floor. 'I remember when he was a young officer. I remember when he was being drilled in the forests. Along with our current, glorious president. They trained together, were KGB together.'

A rush of air as Harry let out a breath. 'He was KGB.'

'Was?' Tikhomirov snorted. 'Is. Konstantin Vadimovich Osipov, well trained in deep cover. He never left.'

ooOoo

The car followed them at a discreet distance. They cut away from it, leaving it on the outer road. Bare branches were stark against the early winter sky; the oldest of the grey stones rested drunkenly against one another, the newer still upright, the newest still with offerings of fresh flowers.

'How did they think they'd get away with it?'

'Arrogance.' Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. 'They were always arrogant. Mind you, so were we. Not to mention our American brethren. It's always just been a case of who would blink first.'

'We'll have to tell them, I suppose. The Americans.'

Harry swore under his breath. 'Yes. Yes, I suppose we will. Damn.'

Adam smiled. 'He must have been something in the field. Tikhomirov, I mean.'

'Yes.' Harry nodded, a smile tugged at his lips. 'Yes, he was. I used to listen to his war stories. Oh, he'd dress them up, of course. But when it was important... When it was important, he was unbeatable.'

The grass around their feet was damp. Adam could feel it seeping into his shoes. He hated damp cold.

'Why have Volkov - _Osipov_ - undercover as mafia? And what the hell does the FSB want with a lunatic like Sidorov, anyway? They're running the show, they've got to be.'

'I know. I know they have to be, that's the only way it makes sense. The only problem is that none of this makes sense.'

'Do you think Mace knew?'

Silence. Feet on damp earth and the high noise of traffic coming from a distance.

'No, Mace is many things but I doubt even he would sell out to the Russians. Stupidity is probably his only crime in this particular instance. They made certain he would meet the boy, Uspensky – no doubt made certain that he was just the type that Mace would go for.'

'For what? Tradecraft? Pillow talk?' It was a horrible image. Adam discovered his gloves in his pocket, pulled them on.

A movement of Harry's shoulders. 'Possibly. Or potential blackmail, should the need arise. But then Mace was arrested.'

'And they killed Uspensky.'

'Yes. He may not have been FSB. Maybe he did think that they were mafia – or if he did know what they really were, they probably fed him some line about doing it all for Mother Russia. Of course, once Oliver's little misfortune befell him, Uspensky became a liability.' Yasha. Mace had called him by the diminutive. The name reserved for intimates. There had been tenderness there. 'They had to get rid of him.'

They had come to a halt. A massive monument, the bearded face staring out sternly. But there was a little humour in there too, Adam had always thought. He jerked his head. 'What do you think he would have made all of this?'

'Somehow I don't think that all of this back-stabbing and one-upmanship was quite what he had in mind. He never wrote, "Spymasters of the world, unite." '

ooOoo

Mia Kenton was never not working. Even when she was relaxed, even when she was laughing at her own jokes, she was still watching everyone else in the bar. Ruth wondered if Mia herself was even aware of it or if it was simply a habit too long ingrained to be broken.

'You know, I don't smoke, myself, but ever since we all went smoke-free, I've had this urge to take it up. Contrary, see? And then I worry for my health in the event that I _did_ take it up. That's the problem with being a Libra – I can never make up my mind.' Mia laughed again. It was an infectious sound and Ruth couldn't help but laugh with her. Mia always laughed at her own jokes - as Jake had pointed out, someone had to.

'So, Ruth.' Mia propped her chin on the heel of her hand. 'How is it being back?'

'Oh, it's...' She fiddled with the stem of her glass. 'It's fine. Fine.'

Mia rolled her eyes. 'Another ringing endorsement.'

Ruth tilted her head. 'I don't...'

'You're fine. Harry's fine. The whole world, apparently, is just peachy.' She leaned back, observed Ruth through those slanted green eyes. Scrutinised, more like, Ruth thought; she shifted uncomfortably, finally met that searching gaze. Mia blew out a breath and leant forward.

'Look, I know it isn't easy. It can't be. And I'm not pretending that I know what you've gone through, but-' She scowled at her empty glass. 'Jake.' She held it up, gestured between herself and Ruth, waved it at him. Across the room he grimaced, replaced his pool cue and ambled to the bar. Mia's eyes stayed on him a fraction longer than necessary, the thumb of her left hand unconsciously brushing the band on her finger.

'How did your friends take it? Your return?'

Ruth sighed. 'Oh... Some of them still aren't speaking to me. It's not like I can tell them what really happened or why. My mother thinks that I'm going to be on the brink of another nervous breakdown and calls me twice a day.' A shadow across her face. The reason given for her disappearance and eventual resurrection caused almost as many problems as the truth had done. 'Everyone else- Well, they don't need to be told what happened but no-one talks about it. It embarrasses them. I think I embarrass them sometimes, just by being there.'

Mia nodded. 'It can't have been easy going back. Having 'I got screwed over' tattooed on your forehead.'

Ruth choked out a laugh. Mia smiled but it was there in her eyes. In this business there were all different types of scars.

'It might do you some good to get away from the life for a while.'

'I...'

'I was serious about that job, Ruth. It's interesting work, trust me. You wouldn't just be stuck behind a desk all of the time, you'd be on the ground, working with clients, doing some field work.' She leant forward again. 'You wouldn't just be working for me, you'd be working with me. And the pay is a lot better.'

'Don't believe a word of it. She'll work you like a bloody dog and the healthcare plan is non-existent.' Two glasses of wine landed on the table and Ruth smiled up at Jake Conlin. He was a big man: black hair, icy blue eyes and an easy smile that lit up a room. The scar across his chin somehow added to the appeal of his face. And just like Mia, he was never not working.

'Shut up, you big idiot,' Mia replied conversationally. He grinned at her.

'Don't let her bully you, Ruth.'

'I'm not that easy to bully.'

He bent down to her, the lilt of his voice close to her ear. 'Glad to hear it.'

'Oh, go and play your game.'

His eyes crinkled. 'Ladies.'

'As I was saying.' Mia sipped her wine. 'The offer's open. Just think about it. You are fantastic at what you do, Ruth. There are lots of paths open to you. God, I sound like a motivational speaker.'

Ruth smiled, lifted her glass. 'I'll think about it. I promise.'

ooOoo

The house was warm and inviting when Harry reached home. The heating had been on, although he was sure that this was more for George's benefit than his. Livia Bel Passi still hadn't quite forgiven him for parting with the cats, even if it was to hand them over to their rightful owner. He draped his coat over the banister, bent to scratch George behind the ears.

It was nice to feel the warmth slowly creeping into his bones. Harry stood in the hallway for a moment, enjoying the peace of home and noting, not for the first time, that the house was a very silent one.

He made his way to the kitchen; a note on the corkboard bore oven-related instructions.

'What's she been up to today?'

George sneezed in response.

'Hm, that good.'

Harry opened the oven cautiously. He was greeted by guinea fowl dressed with tarragon and saffron on a bed of soft polenta seasoned with butter and grated cheese. Livia had been getting creative again and he wondered when she found the time to get any studying done. Selfishly, he couldn't quite bring himself to instruct her to spend less time in the kitchen and more time at her books.

His hand hovered over the knob; the phone rang. He sighed, made his way down the hall and with every step toyed with the idea of ignoring it. But that had never worked before today, there was no reason why it would this time.

'Yes, well?'

'Harry, it's Juliet.'

He gripped the receiver. 'Juliet. I have no more to tell you than I did an hour ago. I know that patience is not one your immediate virtues, but if-'

'Harry!'

He was silent.

'I didn't want you to hear it from anyone else. The call came through a few minutes ago. Mace is dead - he was found hanging in his cell.'

_TBC_


	9. Simple Twist of Fate

Chapter Nine: Simple Twist of Fate

Juliet watched Harry's progress from one side of the room to the other and back. He could have one more turn, she decided, and then she'd put an end to it. He stopped in front of her desk, looked down at her.

'They're certain it was suicide?'

'There was no-one else there, Harry. He'd been locked in for the night; unless one of the wardens marched in and strung him up-'

Harry looked at her.

'No, Harry!' Juliet sighed wearily. 'He did it himself. You can't honestly tell me that you're upset by this - it wasn't that long ago that you wanted to kill him yourself.'

He forgot sometimes just how well Juliet knew him; it could be disconcerting. Her gaze was coldly blue and penetrating. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, sat down opposite her.

'So. Volkov isn't Volkov, he's Osipov. What does that little shit Lev Kazakov have to say for himself?'

'I've set Rosalind Myers on him. She seems to be taking Kazakov's ... manipulation, shall we say? ... rather personally.' Harry's mouth twitched. 'My own inclination is to shove him in a holding cell and hose him down until he breaks, but sadly that option isn't open to us.'

Juliet's eyes glittered. 'I'm sure we could think up some excuse.'

Harry laughed, a rush of air down his nose. Astonishing the things that seemed genuinely funny at this hour of the morning. The windows of her office glittered blackly, occasionally caught by the sharp rattle of freezing rain like a handful of gravel thrown at the glass.

'I'll be setting up a meeting with the American liaison later today.'

'Juliet-'

'It can't be helped, Harry. They are our allies. If they have information about Osipov-'

He snorted. 'They couldn't even _spell_ "Osipov." '

'Harry!'

He muttered something unintelligible, looked up at her and continued levelly. 'Juliet. We have no idea what is going on. I would like five undisturbed minutes to actually find out what _is_ going on before the bloody US cavalry rides in with their usual policy of blasting everything into submission and asking questions later. I refuse to stand by and aid them in their headlong rush into World War Three.'

Her lips compressed, a hard thin line.

'This is still our country, Juliet, despite the best efforts of our inglorious leadership. If American interests are threatened, by all means, tell them. But until that time I intend to have control over my own back yard.'

They watched each other until Juliet blew out a breath. 'All right, Harry. But consider yourself on a very short leash.'

One eyebrow lifted.

'I mean it, Harry. I'll buy you what time I can but if there is any overlap with another intelligence service - _any_ intelligence service - they will have to be informed. Right?'

His lips curled. 'Thank you.'

ooOoo

Jo mounted the stairs cautiously. Even from the bottom step she could see the difference in light coming from above: electric light coming from the open doorway. One step at a time, her back pressed against the peeling wallpaper, eyes fixed upwards. From the shop downstairs came the thud of music played too loudly on a badly-tuned radio.

She reached the top. The door of Nadezhda's office stood ajar. Jo stood for a moment, listening, almost holding her breath. The music suddenly swelled in volume and then was cut off. In the silence that followed, Jo could hear her heart beating. Her mouth had gone dry. There was no sound from within, no movement. She hit the door with the heel of her hand; it swung back, banging against the wall and she stepped inside. And stopped again.

Nadezhda was wracked against one side of her chair, body slumped awkwardly. Her head was thrown back, her mouth fixed in a rictus snarl. Her eyes were open and she saw nothing.

A cup, overturned, had spilt its contents across the desk. The rim was stained with Nadezhda's dark lipstick. The coffee, black, had dripped onto the floor, a still pool formed on the carpet.

All the air left Jo's body in a gasping rush and she felt hollow. Just for a moment. Then she crossed the room, kneeling at Nadezhda's side. She had seen death enough times not to have uncertainties now, but she still laid the backs of her fingers against Nadezhda's cheek. The skin was cold and stiff. Fingers moved to the woman's neck, searching for the pulse that she knew wasn't there. Jo sat back on her heels and allowed herself a moment of unreasoning and helpless anger. Too many lives and it always seemed so bloody pointless. The loss of their lives, what she was doing with her own-

Footsteps on the stairs. She stood, turned and crossed the floor in time to block Lara's entry.

'Don't. Lara. Don't go in there.' She rested a hand on the girl's arm. Dark eyes, both confused and – as ever – suspicious. She craned her neck, peering over Jo's shoulder. Jo increased her grip on her arm.

'Lara, it's best if you go back downstairs-'

Jo saw the recognition of what happened, the realisation, across her face. Lara took a step back, an automatic motion. And the expression that came now was revulsion.

'You... You did this. You...'

'Lara, no-'

It was a howl like an animal deprived of its young. Jo braced herself against the sudden rush of movement but the force made her stagger, a sharp pain scoring across her cheek. The door crashed against the wall again as she stumbled backwards, her head jolting to avoid Lara's flexed fingers from digging into her face. Jo blocked her with one arm, grabbing both the thin wrists in one hand and with the other slapped her, hard, across the face. A heavy, open-handed blow. Lara gasped, suddenly silenced, eyes widening and then her face crumpled. She folded in on herself, head buried in her hands. Jo watched her dispassionately, pulled her phone from her bag.

One-and-a-half rings and then a voice on the other end. Jo kept her voice controlled, more clipped than was usual. 'It's me. Nadya's dead. It looks like a poisoning.' Cyanide, possibly, Jo thought, trying to remember what she had been taught about poisons and their effects on some course she had taken.

'Shit.' Even then, Ros still sounded wholly unmoved.

'Lara's here. What do I do now?'

'Stay there. And keep Lara there. We'll be there soon, Jo.'

She snapped the phone shut. Lara had raised her head, staring at her from reddened eyes. Jo turned away.

ooOoo

The holding cells were designed to be intimidating, disorienting. Day and night were elided in the permanent semi-gloom. After a while the walls starting closing in, even on the least claustrophobic. And everyone who found themselves there against their will discovered their own method of coping, or trying to cope, with it. Usually one of two ways – brazen it out, until they were broken; or withdraw into themselves. Until they were broken.

Larisa Petrenko had withdrawn. Arms folded across her body, shoulders hunched, she kept her head down and red-rimmed eyes focused on her knees. She seemed to be concentrating on nothing more than breathing.

'She may not even know anything,' Jo murmured.

'Perhaps not. Or she may know a great deal.'

They stood side-by-side, Jo and Harry, and watched the girl through the glass. Ros and Adam had been set the task of questioning her. They had been relatively gentle so far. So far it had done them no good. Harry was no stranger to brutal interrogations but he disliked the idea of terrorising a young woman on the off-chance. His lips tightened. Information was coming in, but too little of it and they were running out of time.

'Let me talk to her.'

Harry faced her. The scratches on Jo's face were still livid red. 'I don't think you're her favourite person, somehow.'

She shrugged. 'I don't need to be. She blames me for what happened to Nadya; maybe seeing me will piss her off enough to start her talking.'

Jo's eyes were huge and beautiful. And hard.

Harry nodded. 'All right.'

He pressed a button, spoke into the microphone; Ros' head tilted slightly and after a moment she touched Adam's arm. When they left Lara she was still hunched; she didn't follow their progress from the cell, didn't flinch when the door banged shut behind them.

'She's tough,' Adam observed.

'Of course she's tough, she's Ukrainian.' Ros glanced back through the window, turned to Jo. 'We can have some restraints put on her before you go in, if you want.'

Jo could just about work out, these days, when Ros was joking. She smiled. 'Thanks. I think I'll be okay.'

Adam went back up the Grid. Ros took Jo's place at Harry's side.

ooOoo

Jo dragged the chair back from the table, an unnaturally loud sound in the confined space. No movement from the dark head opposite. Jo sat, folded her hands, a display of patience. There was an air of calmness, almost serenity, about Jo that she herself was unaware of. Her focus, like now, leant it weight, made it powerful. It made her intimidating.

Her eyes didn't move from the bowed head. Minutes crawled by and neither moved. Until Lara's head jerked upwards fractionally. Her eyes were coal-black and burning.

'Nadya was murdered, Lara. She was poisoned. Cyanide. It's not a pleasant death but it's quick. We need to find out who did it and you might be able to help us.'

A noise in the back of her throat, another sudden movement and she spat in Jo's face. Jo remained still, saliva clinging to her cheek. She pulled out a tissue, wiped her face, re-folded it methodically and put it back in her pocket.

'Next time I spit back.' Both Jo's hands rested on the table, palms face down. 'We need to know what Nadya knew about Stepan Yefimovich Volkov.'

'Fuck you.'

'Lara, he's probably the one who had her killed. He's already killed someone else the same way – cyanide poisoning. A boy named Yakov Uspensky.'

It was slight, the stiffening, the darting of her eyes to one side.

'You knew him.'

'I've never met him. I know nothing about murder.'

'You've heard of him, though. And I think you do know about murder; I think you've seen it all before, too many times. At home, here...'

Lara's head was raised completely. Her lips twitched contemptuously. 'You think you know me? You don't know me. You know nothing.'

'Then why don't you tell me?' One hand turned, palm up. A request. 'Tell me what it was that got Nadya killed.'

ooOoo

'She's good.' Ros tilted her head, appraising.

'Yes. She's very good.'

Ros made a vague noise in the back of her throat. 'Little girl's all grown up.'

He raised his eyebrows. Mainly at the notable lack of sarcasm in Ros' tone. 'I don't think that Jo would thank you for that description.'

'Probably not.' A pause. 'What do we do with the girl when Jo's through with her?'

Harry didn't move. 'Terrorise her into keeping her mouth shut. Isn't that what we do best?'

ooOoo

'I knew. I knew we couldn't trust you. I told Nadya but she would not listen.' Lara's head tilted. 'Does Mia Kenton know what you are? Is that why she sent you?'

Jo stared her down.

Lara's shoulders hunched again. 'It does not matter. Nothing matters now.'

'You're right.'

The dark eyes were raised again, genuine surprise registering.

'For you, nothing matters. Nadya's gone and that's the end of everything. Including her work.' Jo let out a breath. 'Look, we don't have time for games. There's no time for me or anyone else to win your trust, pretend we know how you feel and then get what we want from you. We don't know how you feel. I don't know how you feel. I've lost colleagues in this work, I've lost friends.' A moment. 'Yes, I know; you probably think that's no great loss, but to is to me. But I still don't pretend to know how you feel right now. All I do know is that there are some very dangerous people running around London who have already killed two people that we know of and are planning to kill a lot more. Nadya knew enough about them to get her killed. So I am asking you, please, Lara, for the sake of all those innocent people that I don't know and you don't know but who are walking around out there right now – I am asking you to tell me anything you can about Volkov.'

Her shoulders were still hunched, her face still pinched, but for an instant Jo was sure she could see a smile tugging at the girl's lips.

'If you'd rather, you could tell me what Nadya knew about Konstantin Osipov.'

Lara's head raised.

'Yes. We know he's really Osipov; we know he's FSB.'

Thin lips twitched. 'FSB. KGB – they are the same, they just changed some letters.'

'You don't have to trust me.'

'Good. I don't.'

'Fine.' Jo leant forward. 'I don't care about that. I care about finding Osipov, stopping him from doing whatever it is and making him pay.'

'You believe in vengeance?'

Jo sat back. 'Yeah. Yes, I do.'

Lara took a long breath, holding it in then releasing it in a long stream. 'That boy – Yakov Uspensky – he had a girl. Yuliya. Nadya was ... taking care of her. She knows a lot, more than they think.'

Jo was very still. Any number of Metropolitan officers had been instructed to find Yuliya Danilova – none had managed it.

'Do you know where Nadya was taking care of her?'

ooOoo

Under his breath, Harry cursed ever member of the British constabulary, both living and dead.

'Shall I go and pick her up?'

He nodded. Ros moved, fast and quietly. At the door she paused, looking back through the window. Even from this distance she could see the glitter from Jo's eyes.

ooOoo

Zaf pushed the door open, shivered involuntarily against the blast of cold air. Jo was staring out across the city, elbows propped heavily on the parapet. When he reached her she took a moment before turning to him.

'You okay?'

Her smile was slow and tired. 'So-so. You?'

'I'm not the one who's been through it today.' He touched her face tenderly; her eyes flickered shut, her head ducking in a wholly unaccustomed gesture. The scratches across her cheek were still raw.

'You should get those seen to.'

'They're scratches, not a bullet-wound.'

'You never know – there's all sorts under human fingernails. Bacteria and stuff, it could get really bad.'

A smile appeared. Small, but better than nothing. 'You've been watching those forensic cop shows again, haven't you?'

'They're very educational.'

'Oh, very,' she agreed. 'And the fact that the girls all wear tight T-shirts helps.'

The wind tugged at her hair; she brushed it away from her face.

'Nadya was so good at what she did.'

'I know.'

'Do you?' She tilted her head, looked at him. 'I read her stuff. She was brave. Made sure she had all the facts. Kept going even when she knew they'd either kill her or beat the shit out of her. All the things that I wanted to be when- When I still wanted to be a journo.'

'Do you? Still want to, I mean.'

She shrugged. 'I don't know. Sometimes, maybe. I don't think I could even remember how anymore.'

'Of course you could. You could do anything you wanted.'

Her smile was warmer this time. 'I liked her. She was tough as nails and she'd probably have done something horrendous to me if she'd found out what I did but I liked her. She didn't deserve to die like that.'

He sighed. 'No.'

'I'm so tired of all this death, Zaf.'

His hands were on her shoulders. 'You're tired and frozen. And probably hungry. You need to eat. Have you eaten?'

'No. No, I haven't eaten; no I'm not really tired; but yes, I could do with being warmed up.'

Her hands had moved, fingers busy with the buckle of his belt.

'Jo, what- What are you- We can't. Not here.'

'Yes, we can.'

Her hands were cold and he sucked in a breath.

'No cameras up here, remember?'

Her lips were soft, warm and they parted under the force of his mouth. He found the entrance to her coat, felt the heat of her body under his hands. He pushed her back against the wall, rough brick catching at her clothes. Her neck arched triumphantly and the sharp sound of her breathing pierced the air.

_TBC_


	10. Principles

Chapter Ten: Principles

The door was rolled back with more force than necessary. Harry looked up expecting Ruth and found Ros instead. Her mouth was set, hard.

'What?'

'I've been trying to get hold of Kazakov. I finally managed to talk to some underling at the Embassy.' She took a breath. Steadying herself. 'Lev Kazakov is on indefinite leave; apparently, he's gone back to Moscow.'

A moment then Harry stood, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. He took a few steps forward; Ros' chin lifted, eyes glittering.

'I see. Where's the girl?'

Momentary confusion. 'Yuliya? She's downstairs. She's a bit...'

His eyebrows rose. 'Yes? Well? A bit?'

Ros' hand tilted: one way then the other. 'Flaky.'

ooOoo

Zaf's body braced involuntarily, trying vainly to stave off the cold that seeped in. His companions were similarly hunched, sullen faces growing stiff in the drafts that came unimpeded through broken windows. Someone had made an attempt at boarding some of them up but had apparently given up halfway through. When the footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond they all turned slightly to the door.

Out of the corner of his eye Zaf could see Bahri's fingers twisting relentlessly around the frayed threads on the edge of his coat.

Sidorov entered, regarding them with the appraising dispassionate eye of someone judging animals for slaughter. His thugs took up position, one either side of the door. Both thick-necked and broad. Zaf's personal favourite, Arkadiy, had pulled a pair of leather gloves over those soft, lethal hands. They looked expensive. The other one, Yuriy, forsook such a display of luxury. Such protection hardly seemed necessary for a man hardened in Russian winters. Yuriy was Russian, not Belarussian. Was he the one, Zaf wondered, who had steered Sidorov towards Volkov and the lure of sarin?

Or maybe he was just the thug that he appeared to be. The hired hand who enjoyed violence for the sake of it.

'Well, my friends.' Sidorov smiled. A predator's smile – lots of teeth and cold eyes. 'My friends, our wait is over.

The change in atmosphere was immediate. The young men shifted, backs straightening.

'Our moment has come. Like yours, ours is a long struggle against oppression, against those who threaten our homeland, our culture. Those who wish to take what is not theirs.'

'_Here we go again,'_ Zaf thought. Sidorov's opening words had brought a jolt of excitement, set his nerves blazing. His continuing oration grated against those nerves more than usual.

It found a more receptive audience with Zaf's companions: they nodded in agreement, the light of fanaticism already there in some of their eyes. Bahri was smiling; but it was a forced smile, Zaf noted. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Zaf turned his attention back to Sidorov. Finally, a break in the monologue. 'What's the target?'

Sidorov bared his teeth. 'Ah, my friend Ifti. You are impatient, yes? Good, that is good. But a soldier must learn patience, how to act only when ordered. Tomorrow, when we move, then you will learn.'

Zaf pulled his lips back, offering the predator a rictus smile of his own.

ooOoo

Yuliya Danilova had once been a beautiful girl. There were probably some people who would still call her beautiful but Harry couldn't see it. She had the high cheekbones and wide aquamarine eyes of the Slavs; but the skin was stretched tight, her eyes sunken and bruised. She kept pulling her sleeves down too-thin arms, hiding the track marks. A pathetic gesture. But it was her fingernails that brought the roil of repulsion in the pit of his stomach: they had been bitten down to the quick.

Her head was bowed, dirty-blonde hair spilling across the table.

'Yulya.' He repeated her name. No response.

'Yuliya Viktorovna!'

She started, raising her eyes to his. Their expression was disturbingly childlike.

'I need you to concentrate, Yulya.'

She murmured something incoherent; he tilted his head, trying to catch the words.

'What?'

'I said let me go. Let me go!' The chair scraped against the floor.

'Sit down.'

She wavered, seemed to collapse downwards more than sit.

'You can't keep me here, Mr Secret Policeman. I've done nothing, you have no right. No right.' She raised a hand to her mouth, teeth moving convulsively against the backs of her fingers.

Harry's lips curled. 'Stop that. Sit on your hands if you have to – or I'll get someone to sit on them for you.'

Yulya looked at him, lowered her hand down to her lap.

'You have no right.' Her voice was strained, teeth beginning to chatter.

'It's very simply, Yulya. You tell me everything about Yakov Uspensky, Nadezhda Maslova and Stepan Volkov and then you can go.'

She wrapped her arms around herself, tilted her head back, her eyes reflecting the light glassily. 'I don't know them.'

'That's three lies in one. Uspensky was your boyfriend; Maslova was paying for that little hidey-hole we found you in; and Volkov – or, Konstantin Osipov, to give him his proper name - was employing Uspensky. So. Let's try it again, shall we?'

She ground her teeth together in an effort at control. She was probably only Catherine's age, and the thought brought a sudden pang of despair and the overwhelming knowledge of the love he had for his own child.

'Yasha is dead,' she volunteered.

'Yes, we knew that.'

'He knew all about you.'

Harry's face betrayed nothing.

'All you, you ... what do you call them in this country? Spooks? Yes, spooks. He knew all about you. He fucked one of you for money.'

'How proud of your man you must have been.'

A shudder ran through her, arms tightening around her emaciated body.

'The sooner you talk, Yulya, the sooner you can go.' Harry moved quickly, gripping the girl's chin in one hand, jerking her head up to look at him. 'Who do you think will look for you? Who do you think will know you're here? We can keep you here for as long as we like unless you tell me what we want to hear. And by that I mean the truth, not some bullshit you think we want to hear.' He increased the pressure, fingers digging into her face and she whimpered. She didn't try to free herself. 'I understand that going cold-turkey is incredibly painful.'

He released her, sat back in his chair. For a time the only sound was from her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

ooOoo

Adam watched the scene and noted his own lack of sympathy for the girl. She was a pitiable wreck of humanity but he seemed to have run out of that sort of human feeling. Or maybe he just had better people to give his meagre remnants to.

But he couldn't stop watching, listening, especially after Harry finally got her talking. Yakov Uspensky, it seemed, had had a big mouth – more interested in impressing his girlfriend than in maintaining anything like discretion.

Well, he had paid the price for it.

Nadya Maslova, on the other hand, had paid the price for not talking. It was clear she had not. They still wouldn't have spared her life if she had given Yulya up, but if she had the girl wouldn't be sitting, strung out, in the welcoming embrace of the MI5 basement.

Harry would have almost as much trouble getting her stop talking as he had getting her to start. It seemed uncontrollable, the words pouring out of her. Increasingly incoherent, Russian mixed in with the failing English, tears dragging dark tracks down her cheeks. When Harry finally left her, she had drawn her knees up to her chest, perched precariously on her chair. She was still muttering to herself and Adam wasn't certain she was even aware that Harry had gone.

The door opened, closed again heavily and Harry stood for a moment, still, staring unseeingly ahead. He looked tired, lines of tension, weariness, radiating from his mouth, around his eyes. More clearly visible than before he had gone into the cell.

'We'd better give her something before she crawls out of her skin.'

Adam nodded. 'Okay.'

'And tell Ruth to get the team in.'

'Zaf called in while you were in there – it's definitely all on for tomorrow.'

A moment then Harry's shoulders straightened, jaw hardening. 'Well. We'd better get to it, then.'

ooOoo

Zaf had still carried the smell of musty cold with him when he took his seat at the table. The shadows around his eyes were more pronounced, his skin strangely sallow. Winter weather and lack of sleep were starting to take their toll. He felt capable of quite cheerfully blowing up Bahri's hidey-hole along with Sidorov, Arkadiy and anyone else who might be there.

He scrubbed at his face, felt the roughness of his cheeks and grimaced. He longed for a hot shower, a hot meal and Jo. Not necessarily in that order. He looked across at her; her head was held high, her eyes, luminous, fixed on Harry.

'Well. It seems that our latest little conspiracy is unravelling. Finally.' Harry regarded them all. It had seemed so simple to begin with, just a routine watching of a small group of people with questionable intentions. Ruth's ring flashed, catching the light as she folded her hands on the tabletop. Nothing was ever simple. 'We know that Stepan Volkov, supposed Russian mob, is really Konstantin Osipov, undercover FSB. We know that he has been contracted to supply sarin to Maksim Sidorov and that Sidorov has brought in Kytmyr to carry out some of his dirty work. Tomorrow, they will put their no doubt meticulous and foolproof plan into action.' Harry breathed out heavily. 'Tomorrow there is a high level meeting, here, in London, between various leaders in both politics and commerce from the United States and certain Eastern European powers. The Czech Republic, Poland, Slovakia.'

Zaf glanced at his colleagues. 'Uh, do we know what the meeting is about?'

'Missile defence.' Ruth's voice was low and clear. 'The Americans want to install a shield in one of the Eastern European powers – preferably Poland – as a deterrent for rogue European states.'

'And what is being touted as a rogue European state these days?' Harry prompted.

'Belarus.' It was Malcolm who supplied the answer.

'And which country would similarly not wish American weaponry bristling on their doorstep?'

'Russia.' Malcolm again.

'Indeed.' Harry nodded.

Zaf leant back, folded his arms. 'Won't blowing up this meeting more or less confirm Belarus as a rogue state? That will just make the Americans more determined. I mean they won't much care that Sidorov is a terrorist, will they? Just that he's Belarussian.'

'Except that we've had some interesting input from one Miss Danilova – she was bunking down with Osipov's boy Uspensky and despite her rather addled state she actually has a fairly good idea of what's going on.' Harry glanced around the table again, almost as though mentally comparing the abilities of his able-bodied agents with those of that wreck of a girl in the basement cells. 'The last thing that Russia wants is American military anywhere near its borders. There have been discussions over years about Russia and Belarus uniting into one country but those talks have been stalled for some time. But if an atrocity were committed against American interests and it originated from Belarus – sanctioned by Minsk or not – it would, as you say, Zafar, only strengthen the American's case. Unless, of course, Russia stepped in and annexed its smaller neighbour in the name of stability and peace. It would remove the excuse the Americans need for their own military presence in the area.'

'And also put an end to any threat to Russia's dominance if Belarus signed the pipeline deal with China,' Ruth added.

'Just so.' Harry straightened the papers in front of him, nudging them a few millimetres to the left.

'Annex? But wouldn't- I mean, the U.N. or...' Zaf took a breath, holding it before releasing it. 'So, what do we do now?'

'Yuliya gave us an address for Osipov,' Adam replied, 'we've got surveillance teams on it. You stay on Kytmyr. We need to get them and Sidorov and the sarin.'

'Is there any hint about where the stuff is, Zaf?' It was the first time that Jo had looked at him fully.

'No such luck. Sidorov's playing it all very close to his chest. International man of bloody mystery.'

'Well,' Adam said grimly, 'not for much longer.'

ooOoo

Ruth tapped gently on the door, rolled it back before waiting for a response. She had never quite adjusted to the all-nighters even if they were a frequent feature of the job. A forced smile found its way to her lips, a little less forced when she met Harry's eyes looking up at her.

'I just thought I'd- Well, I wondered if you needed anything.'

'Come in.'

Music swelled in a triumphant flurry of horns, voices rising to meet them. Harry lowered the volume.

'How is it out there?'

Ruth considered this. 'Tense.'

'Good.' His head moved slightly, drawing her across the room and into the seat opposite him.

She smiled slightly. 'Actually, um, Jo was wondering about the girl – what we're doing with her.'

'The girl.' Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, replaced the cap on his pen. 'She's under medical care. Undergoing a rapid detox, as I understand it, whether she wants it or not.'

Ruth frowned then her face cleared. 'No, I think she meant Lara.'

'Ah.'

'We can't really keep hold of her, Harry, she hasn't done anything...' Her voice trailed off, quavering at the end turning it into a question.

His lips twitched. 'For her own safety - I'm sure that even our Russian guest can't argue with that.' He reflected on these words. 'Although she probably can and will.'

'Probably. And I think she's Ukrainian.'

He looked pained. 'Miss Petrenko is in a safe house and will remain there until we are sure that the people who killed her employer aren't coming for her.' Harry raised his coffee cup, took a sip and winced.

'Cold?'

'As a stone,' he replied in distaste.

There was silence between them for a while, something familiar. Ruth tilted her head, listening. The voices were Russian, deep and resonant. A stirring sound. She knew little of Russian opera but enough to know that this was not it. Ruth met his gaze quizzically. 'Wh-what..?'

Harry looked faintly embarrassed. 'Nad Otchiznoy velichavo.' The words felt thick, unfamiliar in his mouth; he stumbled over them. He saw the look on her face: surprise and amusement. 'It seemed appropriate.'

'Don't tell me you're thinking of defecting.'

Another smile: wry this time. 'Not lately.' He paused, grasped the pen on his desk and released it. 'Sometimes I almost miss the Cold War. It was hardly a pleasant experience but at least you knew what everyone stood for. It wasn't black and white – it never is – but there was ... a certain comfort in understanding exactly what it was that the opposite side were fighting for.'

'You'd be friends with them sometimes, wouldn't you? I-I don't mean you personally, I mean... I mean our agents and theirs would sometimes make friends with each other.'

'Two sides of a coin. Sometimes the man you think of as your enemy is truly your greatest friend.'

Ruth smiled. 'That sounds suitably Russian. Lenin? Trotsky?'

The embarrassment returned. He met her gaze with something like defiance. 'Hugo Ross.'

'Oh.' A pause, then, 'You liked him, didn't you?'

'Yes, I did. I still do.' Harry leaned back in his chair. 'I never agreed with what he did, but I did understand, up to a point, why he did it. I even admired him a little for it. He truly believed that he could save thousands of lives by sacrificing a handful. As our own leadership often seems to be in accord with that view it seems a little churlish to criticise him for it, don't you think?'

'Perhaps.' She watched him. 'Do- Have you seen him since..?'

'No.' The shadows behind his eyes deepened. 'They're in Cornwall now. France had been the first choice, but then... I would have liked to visit him but I'm not exactly a welcome guest.'

'Does he remember anything?'

Harry shook his head. 'New information; although, it takes a lot of repetition before it will sink in, apparently. Nothing from before that. I sent him a copy of the Communist Manifesto. She sent it back.'

Ruth glanced down at her hands clasped on her lap, back up at him. 'I'm sorry.'

'So am I.'

The moment stretched on.

'I- I've missed this.'

No flicker across his face. 'Yes.'

Her eyes dropped again, a sudden flare of colour staining her cheeks. When the phone rang they both started. Harry kept his eyes on her for a moment, removing his gaze reluctantly. He raised the receiver, listened, covered the mouthpiece with one hand.

'Juliet.'

'Oh.' It was barely a breath. Ruth stood quietly, crossed to the door and paused only long enough for one last glance at the man behind the desk before moving back out into the low buzz of the Grid and closing his door behind her.

_TBC_


	11. No Man's Land

Chapter Eleven: No Man's Land

When the noise came, shrill and far too loud for his liking, it was some moments before Harry could identify the source. Suspended on the cusp of a strange sort of non-sleep, he resented the intrusion of his alarm clock. Not his alarm clock. The telephone. He straightened suddenly, a shooting pain in his neck from where his head had hung awkwardly. Harry scrubbed at his eyes, grabbed the receiver. His voice was roughened with exhaustion and that uneasy, hazy sleep and the response on the other end came with more alacrity as a result.

There was silence after the initial statement and Harry's lips tightened. A few moments and he replaced the receiver. He passed a hand over his face, picked up the phone again. As the ringing continued he felt the anger crackling under the surface sharpen.

A click on the line.

'Juliet.'

'It's usual to wait for the person answering to say "Hello", Harry.'

'The surveillance teams have lost track of Osipov.'

Silence. Then, 'Please tell me that this is your attempt at humour.'

He smiled grimly. 'If only.'

On the other end of the line Juliet swore under her breath. 'You assured me that you had everything under control.'

'And at the time I told you that it was the truth.'

Through glass walls, Harry could see the increased activity on the Grid. Bad new travelled faster than gossip.

'Oh, well, that's all right then, isn't it?'

Harry grasped the receiver. 'We still have Sidorov and Kytmyr.'

'Absolutely certain of that are we, Harry?'

His lips compressed, breathed heavily down his nose. 'Zafar is with them. As soon as we have the location of the warehouse and the sarin is in their grubby little paws we'll take them. We'll cut them off at the knees if we can't remove the head.'

There was an indecipherable sound down the line. 'Of all the appalling metaphors I have heard you utter over the years, that was the worst.'

ooOoo

The van was cramped, stuffy. Wedged between two of Kytmyr's foot-soldiers, Zaf was assailed by the smell of sweat, unwashed clothes and stale garlic. The suspension had gone: with each speed-bump his head nearly hit the roof. Their driver did nothing to ease the journey. Daoud. A big man. He would have been handsome if his face didn't wear that permanent scowl. Zaf shifted uncomfortably, trying to stretch out his legs. He had never been good at sitting still for long – the ache behind his kneecaps was starting to drive him crazy.

The van took a sharp right, bumping them against each other. They exchanged the glances of the battle-weary. Zaf felt a wave of pity tinged with contempt. Kids playing at being grown-ups, that was all. Fighting a war that they only thought they understood, in reality, made no sense.

The van slowed, jerked to a stop and Bahri's elbow dug into Zaf's arm. The engine cut out and in the ensuing silence he could hear harsh breathing barely controlled. The door was rolled back and Zaf made his way out gratefully, though that gratitude lasted only seconds. Dawn had broken, the sky lightening to a deep steely grey; the thick cloud suggested that there would be little more light as the day progressed. The air was raw, breath frosting around them, he could feel his cheeks stiffening in the cold. A low mist hung over the river. They were down in the Docklands and he remembered the last time he had been down this way. A little further down the river, perhaps. A burning warehouse, gunfire, Mia Kenton standing frozen before the flames. Zaf closed his eyes momentarily, opened them and blinked against the wind.

The last few days had been bright and clear, but this was damp, bone-rattling cold. It tugged at his face, stung his eyes. Maybe, when this was over, he could ask Harry for a couple of days off. A long weekend, catch a bit of winter sun somewhere warm. Jo still had some days owing, she could take the time. It might look a bit suspicious, both of them at the same time, but he was past caring. At the moment he couldn't remember all the reasons they had had for keeping it a secret anyway. Something that had seemed like a good idea at the time, no doubt.

Bahri was wearing fingerless gloves, Zaf noted. Above the frayed edges of black wool his fingertips looked blue. Zaf shoved his own hands into his pockets, balling his hands and hunched himself against the wind. It seemed to find every thinness, every opening in his clothing and bite at his skin.

Across ground strewn with litter, bits of wood and twisted metal, scraps of weeds growing in cracks in the tarmac. Daoud swung open the door of a warehouse, held it open while they all filed in dutifully. And Zaf felt his heart begin to pound.

The interior was dark, it took a few seconds before his eyes adjusted. An old trick – stare into the darkest part of the room and then everything else looks much brighter. He looked back into the middle of the space and saw them: the unholy trinity – Sidorov, Arkadiy, Yuriy.

Sidorov regarded them complacently. 'Well, my friends.' He raised a canister from a box. Bahri flinched visibly, didn't break his stride. 'We have all that we wished for...'

No sign that he heard from Osipov. No flicker across the faces of his henchmen. Zaf slowed just enough to drop back a little from his companions; the taweez locket had become his dearest friend. He brought hand to his mouth, ostensibly stifling a cough.

'Foxtrot Delta Zero.' His voice was barely a whisper; he increased his pace, caught up with the others and then stood in front of Sidorov.

The terrorist had the air of a master magician, standing before his boxes of tricks that would, miraculously, bring death to so many. He was smiling. Smirking. And it was one of the few times in his life that Zaf had felt the genuine and remorseless desire to kill someone.

Provided Malcolm's equipment was working correctly it shouldn't be long now. A few more minutes – seconds, even – and it would be over. The bad guys would be where they belonged and he would be free. For a little while, anyway. His palms were damp; he rubbed them against his trouser legs.

'We have waited and now our time has-'

The words were lost in an explosion of glass and sound. Black-clad figures came through each window, bringing unearthly yells and blaring sirens with them. The high-pitched bark of dogs, guns that seemed ludicrously large, yells muffled by balaclavas. Zaf hit the ground as they entered, kept his hands outstretched in front of him. The SAS were good at this stuff but he didn't want to give them any excuse for an unwarranted kill shot.

There was confusion. He saw Bahri trying to run in three different directions at once, Sidorov's predator's grin turn to the frozen stare of the hunted. Arkadiy was running the length of the warehouse floor. For a big man he was fast. One of those faceless black figures caught him up – a baton against the back of his knees brought him stumbling to the ground.

Zaf smiled to himself, lowered his head.

ooOoo

'Do you really think Osipov will show up here?'

Adam glanced at Ros briefly, back to the monitors. 'Harry thinks it's a possibility.'

'Ah well, if Harry says so...' There was a slight smile as she said it. It looked like affection.

'It's not worth taking the risk by ignoring him, is it?'

'No.'

She was scanning the images on the screens, leaning closer to examine the blur of faces. They all started looking the same after a while; but Ros' eyes had always been keener than his – she was good at noticing things.

They fell into a silence that would have been companionable if their nerves hadn't been stretched by tension. It would be insanity to attempt to pull off an attack now when all covers had obviously been blown. Osipov would be in the wind, probably denied by the very government that had sent him – but a man like that might only see such obstacles as a challenge. And it would take only one man and a small amount of sarin and the effects would be something they had all seen, and they weren't anything that any of them wanted to see again.

Ros looked tired, Adam thought. Strain showing in the lines around her mouth and eyes. She kept fiddling with one earring, the way she always did when she was tense.

'Alpha Three to Alpha One.' Jo's voice crackled in his earpiece. 'Have eyeball on target. Repeat, have eyeball on target.'

Adam sucked in a breath, met Ros' eyes. 'Where are you?'

'Back entrance, south side. He's approaching from the west.'

'Right, stay on him. We're on our way.'

Ros was already moving, one hand moving inside her jacket checking for her gun. She pushed open the doors and they both stepped out.

ooOoo

Jo barely trusted herself to blink. Osipov walked with a swagger. Brazen. Did he not know that he still might be under surveillance? she wondered. Or did he just not care?

The last thought unnerved her. Because when people don't care anymore they're dangerous.

'Alpha One to Alpha Three, do you still have eyeball on target?'

'Confirmed, Alpha Three.'

She still felt like an idiot using the call-signs. Yes, they could save a life – they had done in the past. And they would be making Malcolm a very happy man. But it always made her feel like a child playing at being a spy. _This can be your codename, and this can be mine. Bang-bang, you're dead._

Osipov ahead of her and then, beyond him, from the opposite direction, Adam and Ros. They walked in synch, bodies unconsciously mimicking each other. They both stared ahead, stony.

Jo swallowed, her mouth dry, saw Ros' lips move, saw the slight movement of Adam's wrist and the muzzle of the gun slide from his sleeve into his hand.

Osipov's arrogant stride slowed only a little. His pace was still smooth, unbroken, but he was still moving.

Footsteps closing in from both directions, what Adam called a pincer movement. Only a few yards. A door swung open in Jo's face, a waiter with a black bin-bag dragged the rubbish out into the street and she stumbled back. The young man glanced up, eyes round with surprise. She heard a shout from further up the street, tried to step around her friend the waiter and they performed an awkward dance together.

'Move!'

Jo stepped into the street and was sent staggering back again, falling over the rubbish bag, splitting it in the process as Osipov crashed into her. More footsteps - Ros and Adam running past. She caught a brief glimpse of Ros' face turned to her. Jo swore under her breath, shrugged off the hands that tried to help her up as she pushed herself back to her feet. She started to run and didn't look back.

ooOoo

'Where the hell is he?'

Ros scanned the crowds, stiffened. 'There.'

Adam followed her gaze, saw the figure ducking into the opening and grimaced. A tube station. 'You've got to be fucking kidding me.'

Across the street, down the steps, fighting against the swell of people coming from the opposite direction. Ros heard heavy breathing immediately behind her, turned slightly, just enough to see Jo on the periphery of her vision.

'Glad you could make it.'

'He went in here?'

'Obviously.' Ros gritted her teeth.

The figure was still ahead, moving through the crowds – now past the barriers. Jo couldn't stop a smile. 'Who'd've thought the bastard had an Oyster card?'

At the barriers. Adam vaulted over neatly, ignored the throaty cry from the guard. Ros was already in his face, Jo close behind.

'We're MI5. You have a terrorist running through your station and a few hundred tourists milling around. Play nice and let us through.'

There was moment where neither the guard nor Ros flinched, but Jo knew who would break first. There was no question of that. Ros was always more terrifying when she didn't raise her voice and she wondered if that was a trick Ros had learnt from Harry. Or was that simply an innate quality of the naturally terrifying? The man's eyes widened, dropped, he let them through and they followed Adam down the escalators, bumping passengers along the way and ignoring their irritable protests.

The air was hot, thin. Somewhere along one of the passages a busker was playing an out of tune rendition of _Born to Run_. It seemed an unfortunately appropriate choice.

So many people: commuters following an habitual route without even noticing it anymore; thin Japanese girls who looked like they'd break if you breathed too hard; tourists dragging suitcases and getting in everyone's way. Getting in their way.

'Where is he?' Jo could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

Ros' head turned. The gate at the far end of the platform swinging shut. 'Shit. He's gone into the tunnels.'

They pushed through, loudly announcing their identities to anyone who bared their progress. People's faces turned from irritation to scepticism to a sort of panicked acceptance. Memories were still too raw. Muffled shouts, voices raised behind them. Fear staining the air.

Down into the tunnels. The air was hotter. Stifling. It seemed thick with dirt. It swirled up into their faces, a blanket of heat that smothered. Ros kept her eyes on Adam's back, followed him and tried not to think about where she was going. Tracks under their feet and she could feel the vibrations from an arriving train. In front? No, behind. That was one danger, at least, that they were not running towards.

There were hollows in the tunnel walls, side passages. They turned down one. Ros felt something run over her foot and glanced down. A rat. Matted fur and bright eyes. There were hundreds of them down here. Maybe thousands. Dark tunnels, no air, no light, and rats. She felt her throat constrict – a childhood nightmare now made real. Jo bumped behind her and she forced herself to take a breath, kept moving forward.

They were heading towards the mouth of the passage, back towards one of the main tunnels. The scream of breaks, metal on metal, was building and the wind whipped Ros' hair across her face. If Osipov couldn't lose them in the tunnels he would head for another platform, board the first train and that would be it.

But Adam was further ahead. She could barely see him, only in intermittent flashes as trains pulled in and out of the tunnels either side. He was moving faster now, almost running. And over the high-pitched whine she could hear him call out.

'Konstantin Vadimovich!'

Adam had his gun out, warm and heavy in his hand. He didn't like killing people. It was part of the job and sometimes you could forget that it was hard. It was supposed to be hard. That was kept you human. But he had his gun out and Osipov was not far in front. There, on the other side of the passage. Crouched against a hollow of rough brick. If he tried to make a break for the opening he would be exposing himself – a clear silhouette against the dim light beyond. And he wouldn't make it.

'It's over, Kostya. There's nowhere to go.'

He heard Ros' footfalls, light over the gravel, and Jo's behind her. He didn't turn to see them but he could see their faces so clearly. Grim and determined in the shadows.

'We can make a deal. Just give yourself up.'

'What type of deal? Life in one of your English prisons?'

'They're better than the Russian kind.'

'Why Russian? I have done nothing they would put me in prison for.' Osipov's eyes were glittering weirdly, lips drawn back across his teeth.

'I don't think they're too pleased with you at the moment, Kostya. You really fucked this one up, didn't you?' Adam could feel his palms slippery with sweat. But he was cold and calm. 'Still, I'm sure we could trade you back to them for something.'

Lights were flashing through the enclosed space, rumbling building to a deafening roar as metres of metal drew into the platform ahead of them.

'My friend, there is nothing you have that they want.' A pause. 'You know what they say.'

A sudden movement in the shadows, something glittering in Osipov's hand. Never be taken.

The gunshot crashed against the walls, echoed down the tunnels.

_TBC_


	12. Just Like A Woman

Chapter Twelve: Just Like A Woman

'Harry?'

The older man scowled at his pages of figures. He loathed spreadsheets and he had actually requested that these be sent up. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought wearily. At least Kolya would have a decent stipend this year, by the time Harry was finished. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looked up. Zaf crossed from the doorway and eased himself into a chair. He never waited to be asked, Harry had noticed. Somehow, he liked that about the young man.

'You've got a minute?'

'It looks like it,' Harry replied.

Zaf grinned. He felt more human again, more himself again. The first decent night's sleep in weeks, a shower of scalding temperatures and he could smile again. 'I was wondering- Well, now that Kytmyr is done with and it's quiet for once, I was wondering if I could take a few days off extra this weekend.'

Harry's eyebrows raised. 'I see.'

'I have some days owing and I'd like to take them now.'

Harry watched him and Zaf held the gaze. 'Just a long weekend, that's all,' he added after a moment.

'Somewhere hot, I take it?'

Zaf grinned again. 'Yeah. I'm not exactly the skiing type.'

There was a gleam like amusement in Harry's eyes. 'I would never have guessed.' He pushed some of the papers away, placed a pen on top of them. 'Yes, I don't see why not. Just see that you fill in-'

'The form. I already have.'

Another wry smile. 'Glad to see we have you so well trained.' Another pause. 'Anything else?'

'Uh, no.' Zaf unfolded himself from the chair, crossed to the door.

'I hope you and Joanna have a very nice time.'

He stopped, turned back and found Harry scowling at his documents again. He didn't look up.

'Close the door on your way out, Zafar.'

ooOoo

Ruth tapped the keyboard, saved the file and felt the mixed rush of relief and satisfaction. One more job done, one more crisis averted. Now, a little breathing space before the next one. The Americans were already clamouring for the first crack at Sidorov. Even the Minsk government was applying for extradition. Let them fight it out between themselves, she thought: it was no longer their problem. She sat back in her chair, stretched out her shoulders, hands rubbing the tension from her neck. Someone had left a television on and the newsreader's voice washed over her, the words barely filtering through.

'_...meeting between the presidents of Russia and Belarus at the Kremlin today...'_

Not their problem anymore. At least, not today.

The Grid was almost deserted, most of the personnel having left without her even noticing. A few junior officers, keen to make a good impression, were still hunched over their desks. Their dedication would be unnoticed by anyone in authority - they had already left for the night. Her hands still linked at the back of her neck, Ruth stared blindly into the middle-distance.

So many late-nights, just like always. _Plus ça change_, coming back had been easy...

She sat forward, dragged her bag up from the floor, dumped it on her desk with a heavy thud. There were two messages on her phone. Both from Mia. The first inviting her for a drink, the second one ordering her. She smiled slightly and checked her watch. Just one more thing to do tonight and then she was definitely leaving.

Harry always complained about the paperwork on his desk but he complained even more if it wasn't waiting when he arrived in the mornings. Perhaps he viewed its late arrival as a sneak attack and resented it. Out of habit she switched on the desk-lamp. The postcard was propped against his computer again. No, not the same one, she realised. Ruth picked it up. The colours and shapes were similar but the composition was different. Something about this one that seemed more desolate. Lonely. She stared at it for a long time until it all blurred before her eyes and everything else around her was lost in white noise.

Her hands were shaking when she put it back.

ooOoo

Jo could hear vague sounds from the other side of the door and waited patiently. She folded her arms across her chest, burying her hands in the warmth of her jacket and wished she hadn't left her gloves in the car. She was sure if she listened hard enough she could hear the car stereo thudding - Zaf always turned the volume up as soon as she got out. Her overnight bag was on the backseat and she smiled remembering how surprised he had been at how little she was taking. She wasn't intending on wearing many clothes for the next few days.

The door opened suddenly and Larisa Petrenko glared at her. 'What do you want?'

Jo sighed. 'I came to give you these.' She pulled the folders out of her bag. Papers, clippings, disks. 'It's all of Nadya's work. I thought that you should have it.'

Lara looked down at the bundle silently, looked back up.

'There's a lot of good stuff in here. You should keep on writing it - finish what she started. But not- Not _this_ story. You can't write this story, what happened to Nadya and everything around that.'

Lara's lips curled – a familiar contempt. 'Covered up, yes?'

'Yes.' Jo felt vague satisfaction at the surprise this admission brought across Lara's face. 'There are lots of people who don't want all of this printed and it would cause more problems than it would solve. I know it's horrible to say that the truth coming out is pointless, but-' Jo shrugged. 'That's the way it goes sometimes. But there's a lot of other stuff to write about; a lot of things to get angry about.'

Lara's arms were folded; she leant against the doorframe. 'Why are you doing this?'

Jo smiled wryly. 'Look, I know what you think of me. Quite frankly, what you think doesn't matter. It's what Nadya would have wanted, I think; and it's the right thing to do.'

A heavy breath. The dark eyes were hard. 'The men who murdered her..?'

Jo moistened her lips. 'The man who had her killed is dead. And most of the other people involved will probably end up wishing that they were as well by the time they're finished with. Justice won't be seen to be done but- Well, it's a kind of justice and it's certainly the rigorous type. Natural justice, maybe. Some people think that's the best kind.' And some days Jo was one of them, and it frightened her that that was so.

'Maybe you're not as stupid as you look.' Lara took the folders.

One corner of Jo's mouth twitched. 'Thanks.' She paused. 'Bye, Lara.'

Jo started down the passage.

'Take care, English girl.'

She stopped, half-turned. Lara had stepped out, just one foot.

'You too.'

Jo carried on and it was only when she turned off for the stairs that she heard Lara's door close.

ooOoo

He had always found red a soothing colour. Some people found that a contrary quirk but it was the way it was. He liked the vibrancy. Or something. Harry shifted on the wooden bench, vaguely wondered why they always made these things so uncomfortable and stood. He made a slow circuit of the room, stopping opposite each painting and taking in the play of colour, the way the shapes seemed to dissolve into their backgrounds only to emerge once more. He had lost track of all time and it was a wonderful feeling. There were few other people in the space. Most stopped in for a minute and then left. He resented their intrusion a little – something about this space had become just his.

It was a ridiculous conceit but he didn't try to smother it.

Another figure in the entrance, Harry moved to avoid her path and then stopped.

'Ruth.'

Her cheeks flushed. 'I, er-'

His eyes wandered over her face. 'How did-'

He stared at her and for a moment it seemed as though he had simply conjured her image through sheer force of will. She clutched the strap of her bag. As always, it bulged awkwardly at her side.

'I-I saw the card on your desk and I just thought- I mean, I wasn't following, or-or...' She sighed. 'I thought you might be here.' His gaze was intent and she glanced over his shoulder. Avoidance. Or perhaps cowardice. 'I can't remember the last time I was in here.'

Harry took a step back, glanced around. 'I never had until- Well, actually it was Mia who introduced me to these.'

'Oh?'

A slight smile. 'We had a meeting here. She seemed to think I'd like them.'

'And it seems she was right.'

The smile widened. His eyes had softened. 'Yes. Unexpectedly.'

Her fingernails were picking at the leather. Against the depth of colour her eyes seemed an unearthly shade. They walked the room together in silence.

It was like a chapel, Ruth thought. The canvases filled the air with their own sort of reverence. Love, death, passion and despair seeping out, filling everything around them. It was overwhelming. Ruth passed a hand across her eyes, took a breath that didn't seem to be enough.

'I'm sorry. Can-can we go somewhere else?'

His hand landed lightly on her elbow. 'Of course.'

ooOoo

It stood brazenly in the middle of her doorstep, a confection of shiny paper and too much ribbon. Ros walked up the steps slowly, glancing around furtively for the sign of anything else out of place. No figures in the shadows, no cars that didn't belong there. She grasped it by the neck, the tell-tale shape already hinting at what it contained.

He wouldn't dare, she thought; he wouldn't have the nerve. There was a label attached and she flipped it over, craning her neck to make out the words written in the glare of the porch-light.

_From St Petersburg, as promised, with much admiration._

Her lips tightened. She should send it back to him. Without the benefit of a diplomatic bag. She should leave it standing on the step indefinitely; she should walk into his fine office and smash it over his head.

Ros weighed it in her hand thoughtfully then, placing it in the crook of her arm, retrieved her key and let herself in. She carried her burden carefully, already puling the ribbons from the wrappings and closed the door on the world.

ooOoo

When they regained the open the cold air caught her face like a slap. Ruth felt her eyes watering, her nose immediately turning red. She scrabbled in her pockets for a tissue and discovered a ragged specimen. She wiped her eyes.

They walked slowly, Harry matching his stride to her shorter steps. It was usually the reverse, he thought. And thought of all the things he had got wrong – not just with this but with so many things before this. Too many to count now but they were things he carried with him always. And they were always waiting for him. But for now, he thought, for now he would enjoy the simplicity of this moment, no matter how it ended.

They stopped, leaning against the barrier wall and watched the figures on the other side of the river. Ruth breathed out heavily; it frosted around her.

'It's a beautiful night.'

'Yes. Yes, it is.' Harry leaned forward, fingers lacing together.

'I've always liked the city in winter. I-'

'Ruth.'

She stopped, her eyes lowering. 'What?'

'Why?'

Breath caught in the back of her throat. 'I-I don't understand. Why what?'

She could feel him moving more than see him, feel his body angling towards her, feel his eyes on her.

'Yes you do. Why did you follow me here tonight?'

'I didn't-'

A muffled snort. Exasperation, she thought. 'Semantics. Why did you come looking for me tonight?'

'I...' Her shoulders hunched miserably. 'I wanted to talk to you. Funny thing is, now I can't remember what it was I wanted to say.'

'I see.'

He turned again, eyes following the progress of a girl in a red hat on the opposite bank.

'You're going to take that job with Mia, aren't you?'

'I might. I might not. I haven't decided yet.'

'It would be a good opportunity for you.'

'That's what Mia says.' Ruth smiled slightly. 'She also says that I'd have more fun working with her than I do working for you.'

Harry couldn't stop the bark of laughter. 'That may very well be true.' He watched her. 'Do you think it would suit you?'

Her face turned to his for the first time. 'It would certainly be interesting to find out. You know, when I came back ... back here, I mean...'

'I know what you mean.'

'Yes.' There was a hole in the finger of one of her gloves. She worried the frayed thread. 'When I came back... I don't know if I thought that everything would be the same or everything would be different. I'm not even sure which one I wanted. And now...' She shook her head. 'I'm not the same person anymore, Harry.'

A pause.

'No.' She wasn't harder, exactly, not colder; the differences were more varied, more subtle, but they were there.

'But I do know, now, that things can't ever go back to the way they were before and I don't want them to. Not any of it.'

His hands gripped each other, eyes fixed ahead. 'No.' There were no words. There was nothing left to give.

'Will- Will you tell me what it was?'

His head turned slightly.

'The thing that you wanted- What I wouldn't let you say. Will you tell me now? If-if you still want to.'

There were no words and her eyes were glowing. A moment and then he was able to speak. 'The something wonderful?'

'The something wonderful.'

Harry touched her face with one finger, followed the curve of her cheek. The fabric of her coat was freezing, slippery with the cold. It radiated from her. Even her lips were like ice; but he would soon warm them.

_Fin_

_You sprawled in my gaze,_

_staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud,_

_from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me_

_as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are_

_on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream._

- Carol Ann Duffy


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